The Company
by Swiss Army Knife
Summary: Thorin is the ringleader of family-owned circus, The Company. When Balin decides to retire, Gandalf hires Bilbo, a tightrope acrobat who had long since given up on his own dream. Thorin doesn't believe this well-mannered townie can make it in their group. Can Bilbo prove him wrong?
1. It's a Dangerous Business

**Written for This Prompt:** Thorin is the ringleader of family-owned circus, _The Company_. Watch Dwalin eat swords! Nori is an equestrian of special magnificence! Fíli throws knives and puts his life in his brother's hands by becoming archery practice! Bifur, who speaks only in garbled Russian, trains bears! Ori has a mesmerizing magic act. Dori is the strongest man alive. Óin tells fortunes. Glóin and his son Gimli are flyers. Bombur has a daredevil cannonball act to shock all audiences, and Bofur is the world's most beloved silent clown. When Balin, the popular fire-eater, decides to retire and become their tour manager, they need another great act to fill in what they've lost. Enter Bilbo Baggins, a tightrope acrobat who had long since given up on his old dream, enlisted by circus owner Gandalf. Thorin doesn't believe this well-mannered townie can make it in their group. Can Bilbo prove him wrong?

 **Author's Note:** May I confess how much joy it gave me when, in the extended edition of The Desolation of Smaug, Gandalf calls the dwarves a "happy troupe" and Beorn asks if they were a traveling circus?

 **THE COMPANY**  
Swiss Army Knife

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE:  
** It's a Dangerous Business, Going Out Your Door

* * *

It was the smell that hit Bilbo first, taking him back a thousand years. His hand, much smaller then, was held fast in his father's sweating palm, and all around him were the dizzying sights of the midway: lights in colorful lines, the teeny sound of a distant carousel, sizzling funnel cakes, and fat, buttery kernels of popcorn dancing in the pan. His first circus. Now, as he stood in the rutted path before the main tent, the great stripes filled his vision until every other object was eclipsed and all that remained were those scents and sounds echoing from a distant past.

He was so absorbed in his memories that the hand that clasped his shoulder startled him, and he had to apologize to his host. "Never you worry," the man assured him with an indulgent chuckle, though he maintained his oddly insistent grip as he drew Bilbo down the road. "You seemed a bit distracted by the hustle and bustle. Has it been a long time?"

"It seems like a lifetime," Bilbo admitted, lengthening his stride to keep pace with the circus owner as they hurried along. "Perhaps twenty years or more. Not since – well, not since my parents last brought me."

He received a knowing look from a pale, keen eye, which made Bilbo uncomfortable. Not for the first time, either. This Gandalf fellow had shown up on his doorstep out of nowhere, just when he was at his lowest point. The job offer was both unsolicited and – though they were hardly strong enough words for it – profoundly unexpected. Yet in the very moment he opened his mouth to shout, "Away with you!" a peculiar itch had started somewhere down in his toes and worked its way up into his chest. It had stopped him just long enough for Gandalf to push his way inside, and before Bilbo knew what was happening, he was sitting in his own armchair with a steaming cup of tea, listening to a stranger prate away about an opening he had for a position in his circus – a position that he very much wanted Bilbo to fill.

"But how did you even know to come here?" Bilbo had never advertised his skills. In fact, very few people knew he possessed them. It had been years and years since he had even… And a circus!

"My dear Bilbo," Gandalf had said, leaning forward so that he could fold his hands over his knees and look the younger man directly in the eye. "Don't you think that it's time you joined in an adventure?"

Those terrifying words had been the last Bilbo clearly remembered; the rest was a haze. It wasn't until he woke the next morning out of an extremely troubled sleep that he found a note sitting on his dresser with the following words in an unfamiliar, whimsical scrawl: St. Joseph's Free Lots, 428 Mill Road, 7:30 A.M. _The Company_. Beneath it had been a glossy pamphlet embossed with the familiar shape of the big top, although rather than the usual showy colors, this tent was black with bronze stripes. Inside, he found the following introduction: _'The House of Durin presents the last dwarrow circus among the free peoples, a spectacle beyond imagination.'_ To Bilbo it sounded a bit over-proud, yet he still read the bill of performers. A bear tamer, a trapeze act, a magician, a fire-eater, and so it went, like a chapter out of one of his mother's tales.

Bilbo had never intended to keep the appointment, if appointment it truly was, yet somehow he found himself thrusting a crumpled set of practice clothes into a bag and turning the key to his door. He took the bus to the outskirts of town where – sure enough – an army of workers was almost finished bringing a circus into being. He'd barely taken his foot off the stair before Gandalf appeared, and now here he was, standing outside a trailer with the circus emblem emblazoned alongside.

Gandalf ushered him up the steps. "Courage, now, my friend."

Inside the trailer, a fan was going. It's gentle _whump, whump_ filled the narrow space, which housed two desks, several filing cabinets, and what appeared to be a mountain of loose paper, stacked and topped with a piece of brick. Sitting at the nearest desk was a stout older gentleman with the longest beard Bilbo had ever seen. Stark white, it cascaded down the front of his fine velvet vest and lay moving gently over his belly as he breathed. When the man looked up, it was through wire spectacles.

"Oh, Gandalf!" he said, standing with a groan. "These old knees! I'm not the sprightly youngster I used to be, I'm afraid." Peering at Bilbo with open curiosity, he removed his glasses and laid them on the ledger he'd been reading. "Who's this, then?"

A hand in the middle of his back propelled Bilbo forward, and Gandalf introduced them. "This, my dear Balin, is Bilbo Baggins, the highwire artist I spoke to you about. I think he may be exactly what _The Company_ is looking for."

Bilbo was fairly gifted at reading people, a skill that had served him well in the turbulent household of his adolescence. He saw Balin's eyebrows plunge downward, his expression changing into a slight frown. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, faded with age but neatly embroidered. He brushed it over his forehead, affecting a nervous chuckle. "Quite hot today, isn't it?"

"Balin," Gandalf said with a note of warning, and to Bilbo he seemed to loom as his tone lowered. "We've been over this; in fact, we've been over it several times. _The Company_ cannot go on as before. Whatever will you do without another attraction for the second act? Glóin and young Gimli are exceptional performers, but they've been our sole aerialists for too long."

Balin took a step back, seating himself against the edge of the desk. "I know, Gandalf, and I agree with you, but it isn't easy to convince him. You know how he feels about bringing outsiders into the troupe." He looked then at Bilbo, who had the keenest sense of being under a spotlight.

"So-so, you're not looking for someone?"

Gandalf shot him a censorious look. "You are exactly where you're meant to be, Bilbo Baggins," he said and turned back to Balin. "Thorin is going to have to relent this untenable position of his. We need more than just performers. We've barely managed to get everything assembled with so few roustabouts."

With more haste than seemed characteristic for his calm demeanor, Balin fumbled his words. "We've managed. Most of the experienced hands have stayed on, and with the performers pitching in –"

"No, it will not do." Gandalf shook his head gravely, and once again Bilbo had the sense that a great deal more was being communicated than he understood. "Balin, I understand Thorin's feelings, I really do, but you know as well as I do that things are not well."

Balin exhaled deep in his chest, offering Bilbo a strained smile. "I have the contract ready to be signed. Your signature is all we need, and then you'll be with us for the season."

From the moment he opened his door the previous evening, Bilbo had felt as though the ground were flying out from under him. Words came floating back, though from where exactly he did not know: _'It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.'_ Now as he held his small bag in front of him like a shield, he felt as though he'd been swept away. Stammering, he tried to protest. "Join for the season? Now wait, I just came to make inquires. I don't know if I'm interested in taking employment. I barely know who you are."

Both men were smiling now, and Balin spread his arm. On the wall was a large poster, from which the face of a stranger smoldered with eyes like deep, turbulent waters. The dark hair and beard were cut in dramatic style, and a satin top hat was perched on his head. Around this visage were smaller silhouettes, sometimes colorful and others in shadow. Flyers and equestrians, a child with a bow, and the tangled, fierce form of a black bear. In golden letters, it boldly proclaimed THE COMPANY in a stark, runic style.

" _The Company_ ," Balin said, "are descended from one of the ancestral families of circus performers, the Durins. I'm certain you've heard of them."

Another memory, this one of his mother's voice by his bedside, telling him stories of feats that almost seemed impossible, performed by people who were half real, half imagined. In one of these stories, he had heard that name. "The Durins," he spoke, uncertain. "They were dwarves, or claimed they were. But they died out." He stopped when he saw the pallor of Balin's face.

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Many of Durin's folk were lost, and of those who survived, most left the traveling life and settled where they could in Europe. Only a few have stayed together and kept up the tradition."

Balin shook his head. "We're a small family concern now, but we still have the pride and talent of our forbearers, and we've been doing fairly well for ourselves, too."

"Yes, you have," Gandalf said, "but you have been subsisting quite long enough. It's time for greater things. Now, where is that contract?"

It was at that moment that heavy steps were heard outside the trailer, and the door jolted open on its hinges. Through it, a closely-shorn head appeared, and Bilbo found himself staring into the same eyes as those on the poster, though in person the force of them was doubled. He had begun speaking – "Balin, have you found" – but the moment he saw Gandalf he stopped. His gaze moved to Bilbo, standing meekly beside the desk, and his scowl intensified. Bilbo felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand up. Without another word the door slammed shut, and those who remained could hear angry steps moving further away until they were lost in the general din of the outside world.

Gandalf took a long breath, his eyes closing. "That," he said, "was our esteemed ringmaster, Thorin Oakenshield, the director of _The Company_. As usual, he makes an unimpeachable first impression."

Looking older than before, Balin sat down in one of the office chairs. "Well, that's it than. He won't have it."

"He will have it," Gandalf said, looking quarrelsome. "Balin, you show Bilbo where he'll be staying. He'll need to be introduced around as well, and perhaps given a chance to demonstrate his abilities. In the meantime, I will speak with Thorin." He turned, placed an elegant grey fedora onto his head, and stepped out into the sunlight.

Bilbo felt a squeak rise up in his throat, and he plunged out the door. "Gandalf!"

Gandalf stopped, looking at the red-faced man beside him. The determined expression he'd been wearing grew milder, and he gazed at Bilbo with firm but kind complacency. "Never fear, Bilbo Baggins. This is the path that was always meant for you, and I know you'll bear up well under it."

"H-how?" It was the question that had been banging alongside his heart since the moment this man said that magical word from out of his long-dead dreams – Circus.

Gandalf nodded. "I thought you might get around to asking, but never fear; I'm no wizard. As it happens, I was a friend of your mother long ago when she, too, enjoyed this life. And though she laid it down to raise you, it was always her wish that you might have a chance to decide for yourself. Now you can, and you shall."

Balin made his way down the stairs and put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "I'll take him from here."

"Thank you," Gandalf said, and in the blink of an eye he was gone. Bilbo searched the crowds fruitlessly, but he had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Bilbo was left with Balin, whose crimson vestment was even more unusual in the full lighting. The material was thick and brocaded, and wooden toggles hung in front. His beard was more striking, too – so white and well groomed that it floated like a cloud.

Balin caught him looking and winked. "Family tradition," he said. "We have plenty of those around here, but you'll get used to them presently. Come with me."

He led Bilbo through the line of midway tents being erected, then along the side of the main tent to the back lot where the crew lived. He pointed to the nearest trailers. "That's where the performers live. You'll likely be placed with the lads, since they have an extra bunk, but we'll have to wait and see." There was a faint wrinkling around his eyes, just enough to make him seem uneasy for a moment, and then he swept onward. "Further out are the trailers of the crew, the animals handlers and roustabouts. Most of them have been with us for a long time now, distant relations or very old friends."

Bilbo peered down the slope. Nearby he heard a horse whinny, and he could smell them now that they were behind the big top. He could also see rows of picnic tables being set out, and another fragrance, this one savory and good, wafted to his sensitive nose. "I suppose you have everything you need here."

"Most everything," Balin agreed. "We prefer to be self-sufficient rather than depend too much on the town. We're not quite a mud circus, but we do move quite often these days, and it's easier to have what we need with us."

They moved to an opening in the canvas, and in a breath they were inside, enveloped in the massive, cavernous space of the main tent. Several rings were already in position, as was the barrier, and in one of the side areas, some of the performers could been seen working.

"Out of the way, if you please," called a voice from behind, and Bilbo shuffled to the side to let a man with hair bound in silver clasps pass him, carrying a box on one shoulder. The box was easily as large as Bilbo himself and looked heavy, but the man carried it without strain. Bilbo watched as the man moved away, unable to suppress his awe.

Balin said, "That's Dori, billed as the strongest man alive. Actually, he's quite a gentleman; very fond of tea and conversation. Just don't get him started on wine tasting unless you have a few hours." He pointed. "And over there is his brother, Nori."

Bilbo turned his head just in time to watch as a robust fellow wearing Turkish trousers readied himself on a platform and then stepped neatly onto the back of a galloping horse, which carried him, still standing, around the ring at startling speed. Nori called encouragement to the animal, who turned at his command, dancing around several obstacles. A youth with much the same color of ginger hair waved from the side. "You've got it, Nori. Do you want me to start the music?"

"The youngster is Ori," Balin said. "He puts on a magic show that dazzles the senses, almost too amazing to be true."

"They're brothers?"

"Yes, and not the only ones, either. They're cousins of mine, actually, though don't ask me to explain the relations. As I said, we're a family operation – ten acts in total, or at least we had. If you look there, you'll see some of the others. That bushy-bearded fellow leaving the tent is Bifur, who handles our bears, and that fellow laughing beside him is Bofur, our head clown."

A familiar shout overhead caught his attention, and Bilbo felt his hairs stand on end for the second time that day. Slowly, he lifted his chin and saw two people moving, testing the lines and spires of the aerialists' nest. As he watched, a sturdy boy with even redder hair than Ori leapt, performing the most beautiful somersault that Bilbo had seen in many years. He fell right into the hands of his catcher, a man who laughed deep in his belly with satisfaction. They made a few mesmerizing passes before the child let go and tumbled safely into the net, where he rolled casually to the side and so onto the floor.

He shouted, "Just a bit higher, Dad," and then walked to where the ladder ascended.

Bilbo stared. "They're the flyers."

"Glóin and his son," Balin said, nodding toward them. "Gimli has been with the circus his entire life, although this will be his first season working full time. He's just twelve now. A bit late, but Glóin is the protective sort. Didn't want to pressure the boy too soon."

Gimli had launched himself once more into the air, having made whatever adjustments he felt necessary, and as he watched, Bilbo became aware of a peculiar ache in his heart. He cleared his throat. "My mother was a aerialist," he said. "Cloud swing, trapeze, and high wire."

"I understand you're quite the acrobat yourself." Balin glanced at the bag hanging from Bilbo's hand. "We've got most of the equipment up. You'll have to show us, once you've had a chance to check everything."

"It's been years since I did more than practice," Bilbo heard himself murmur. "I don't even know if I can do it anymore."

Though he had spoken so quietly, it was clear that Balin heard him. "I have faith in Gandalf's judgment. He wouldn't have recruited you if you weren't capable."

To avoid the subject, Bilbo asked, "Is there anything else you want me to see?"

Balin took him by the arm and lead him back outside. Behind the tent were several smaller ones, along with corrals for the animals. Bilbo heard the distinct bellow of an elephant, even louder than the bustle of several individuals who moved around, carrying loads or going about their chores. One of these men stopped when he spotted them and stared from under heavy eyebrows. His bald pate was covered with tattoos unlike anything Bilbo had ever seen, and in combination with his dark mustache and beard, he looked quite threatening. Balin, seeing Bilbo's reaction, chuckled. "That would be Dwalin. Along with myself, he's been with _The Company_ longer than any other, and he's devoted to Thorin. You may find him a bit slow to warm up, but he has a good and loyal heart."

"He looks like he wants to pick me up and throw me across the yard."

In the distance, Dwalin adjusted the load he was carrying on his shoulder, which appeared to be a rolled Persian rug. A glint of metal shown at one end as he did so. "Nonsense," Balin said. "Well, he does juggle, but mostly swords and flaming torches."

With these not-so-reassuring words, the two continued onward. There was a platform on one end of an empty stretch of earth. Opposite this area was a board painted with targets. Their bands were faded and pitted with use, and a few arrows could be seen protruding haphazardly, demonstrating indifferent skill. Balin tutted. "Kíli! Are you practicing or just slacking off this day?"

It was then Bilbo saw the platform wasn't empty. He hadn't noticed because its occupant, a lanky youth wearing a black hoodie and some of the raggediest jeans Bilbo had ever seen, was lounging on his back, a magazine covering his face. He jerked when he heard his name, and when the magazine was thrust aside, it revealed a boyish face, all dark eyes and chaotic brunette hair. He seemed to be trying to grow a beard, but his attempts had yielded a patchy stubble, no more.

He looked furtively around for something which apparently he did not see because his shoulders slumped in relief. "Oh, Balin. I was just taking a break."

"At eight in the morning? You're the son of laziness, laddie," Balin called back. "Better not let your uncle see, or he'll accuse you of getting rusty."

Huffing, the young man rolled onto his knees and took up the bow that had been sitting beside him. It was shorter than Bilbo was used to seeing, with curved lines. Drawing it back, Kíli fired three quick shots, so swift that Bilbo couldn't see their path until – _thunk, thunk, thunk_ – they went home. Unlike earlier attempts, they found their seat in the heart of the smallest target, almost on top of one another. Kíli dropped back onto his bottom, yawned, and picked up an apple. He bit into it noisily. "Not rusty," he said.

Balin laughed. "Well, your brother, at least, will be glad of that. By the way, I'd like you to meet someone."

Hoping down from the platform, the young man approached. He extended his hand, and Bilbo was charmed by his handsome appearance; that is, until Kíli opened his mouth. "You're short," he said. "Shorter even than Fíli, and that's a feat. You aren't joining as a roustabout, are you?"

Indignant, Bilbo straightened to his full one hundred and seventy centimeters. "I'll have you know that I am a tolerable height compared to most."

Kíli, who was apparently not very well versed in the etiquette of personal space, stepped chest to chest with him, measuring with a hand. "Quite short," he said. He gave Bilbo a firm poke in the shoulder, forcing him back a pace. "And light, too. Not very good for that kind of work."

Balin gave Kíli a reproachful look. "Now then, show some manners. Bilbo, this is Kíli, an archer _par excellence_ , though his head could stand to be a bit smaller." This he said with a pointed look at Kíli, who was making a show of polishing his nails, his posture deliberately cocky. "Kíli, this is Bilbo Baggins. Mister Gandalf has recruited him as an attraction to fill in the second act. He's a tightrope walker."

If Bilbo hadn't been watching carefully, he might not have noticed the look of surprise that flew across Kíli's face, as it was quickly overcome by frank curiosity. He looked the newcomer up and down, this time with purpose. "A new act, eh? Does Uncle know about this?"

"Never mind Thorin," Balin said. "Gandalf is speaking with him. _He_ vetted Mister Baggins, and he has decided to offer him a contract for the season. I'm just showing him around. We ran into most of the others already. Though I don't suppose you've seen Óin or your brother."

Another of those minute expression changes. This one was a shift to uneasiness, not unlike Balin's when Gandalf put his foot down in the trailer about Bilbo's contract. Kíli nodded. "Óin is directing the setup of the midway. As for Fíli," – and there it was again, that strange hesitation – "you know how he is during the haul."

"I see," Balin answered, as though this wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. "Alright then."

Kíli raised his hand in farewell as they turned to leave. "Good luck, Mister Boggins."

As they were walking away, Bilbo asked, "What was that about?"

The older man didn't turn his head. "What do you mean, laddie? I know our Kíli doesn't have the prettiest manners, though, goodness, we did try. No, mostly he's just a young scamp, with the usual virtues and vices."

"That's not what I meant," Bilbo said, who hadn't been able to help liking Kíli. Bilbo himself had been a somber and introverted child during his teenage years, but the brash energy Kíli exuded hadn't failed in its appeal. No, it had not been Kíli's manners. In an attempt at levity, he commented, "Kíli and Fíli, eh?"

Balin's mouth twisted, an expression that was something between a grimace and a grin. "Aye, Fíli and Kíli. They're brothers, and they were raised in the business. Thorin is their uncle."

The memory of the smoldering gentleman who'd barged into the trailer appeared in Bilbo's mind. "Ah. I see. Are their parents also performers?"

Balin's shoulders turned downward. "They were. Both of them have left us, now. But that was long ago. The boys barely remember."

Bilbo swallowed around the knot in his throat, sorry he'd brought up the topic. He knew how the loss of a parent could change the landscape of the world, though if that frightening man was their uncle then perhaps it was fortunate they lived in such a communal environment. No doubt they had plenty of surrogate family here. At least, that's what his mother had always lead him to believe about the circus. "I haven't met Fíli," he said when he found his voice again.

Balin inclined his head. "You're in luck, then. That's him there, between those cages."

Down an incline, amongst the outbuildings, Bilbo could see a figure moving. Like Kíli, his hair was longish and pulled back; however, unlike his brother's, it was fair. From this distance, Bilbo couldn't make out much more about him. "Does he also do archery?"

"Fíli? Well, no. He's an acrobat and does a weapons exhibition with Kíli. They're really quite something together."

As though summoned by the sound of his name, Fíli turned. His face was a beige oval from this distance, but he looked directly at them, and something about him made Bilbo's heart squeeze. "He seems sad."

Balin gave him a hard look. "Fíli tends to keep to himself. Best you leave him be." The tension broke, and Balin's expression softened. "Now, I think it's time you had a look at your equipment, don't you think?"

* * *

In another part of the camp, a conversation was taking place between two very strong-tempered men, both of whom were used to having their own way. One of them was Gandalf, whose conviction was backed up by the majority stake he had in _The Company_ 's interests. Thorin, on the other hand, was the circus' natural leader, a patriarch and blood relative of Durin's house, heir to both its legacy and it tragedy. Not that its legacy amounted to much at the moment, a fact that Gandalf didn't hesitate to point out, much to Thorin's chagrin.

"For years I've heard countless tales of the old ways, of the performances of your forefathers, of your splendid traditions. A shame that you've let yourself become so insulated that you won't even consider what would do you a world of good."

Thorin stopped grappling with the lid of the crate he'd been feigning to unload. He jabbed his finger at Gandalf. "You speak as though you care what happens to _The Company_ , and yet you ignore my wishes. No outsiders. I made that perfectly clear. Besides, we don't need another aerialist. Gimli will be full time this year."

"Aerial acts are the reason people come to the circus these days," Gandalf said as Thorin turned away in disgust. "Besides, Gimli is still a boy. He doesn't have the experience to carry the second act."

"And yet," said Thorin, "by your own account, this – this _grocer_ has never been with a circus before. Has never performed before _any_ audience."

Gandalf sat down. "That's not exactly what I said." Thorin had never been clear on his age, but the lines around his eyes were heavy, and he brushed his hair back from his temple as though a headache were forming there. "It has been some time, and it's true he's never performed with a circus, but he has untapped potential, Thorin. Untapped potential to many ends."

Well used to Gandalf's enigmatic way of speaking, Thorin remained unmoved. "Well, you can let him develop his _potential_ somewhere else. I don't want him."

"That, unfortunately, is not for you to decide. As it is, I've already decided to hire him. Balin has the contract, and unless your jolly assemblage manages to scare him off before we get his signature, the deed will be done." He paused. "You're going to have to accept this, my old friend. It's time."

Thorin went still, back as rigid as though it were made of stone. "And who are you to decide for my family?"

Speaking more gently, Gandalf said, "If it were only a family matter, that would be one thing, but we both know this is more complicated. Thorin, please," he tried. "You know how much I care about –"

"Stop," Thorin said. Not loudly, but with such absolute conviction that even Gandalf did not push him.

Instead, he asked, "Will you at least come and see him?"

* * *

Bilbo was alone for the first time since entering the circus grounds. Below him – far, far below – he could hear the murmur of voices and the clamor of objects being mounted, positioned, and unpacked. However, they were mere background noise, faded into insignificance by the heady height and the feel of the wooden platform underneath his heels. He was wearing leggings and a close-fitting shirt, the nearest things he had to a uniform. It had been years since he attempted this in front of anything like a crowd, but as he clapped his hands together, the smell of chalk sent a charged flow of energy down to the tips of his fingers. He took his first step out onto the line, and it was like nothing had ever changed.

Two experimental steps, arms extended. The tautness was okay, though not quite as slack as he preferred. He shifted his weight, letting the wire move beneath his stationary feet, experimenting with the sway and vibration of the line. Three more steps, more confident this time, and then he shifted ever-so-slowly onto his tiptoes, sliding forward until his knee touched the line. It was a basic move, one of the first a tightrope walker learned, but it gratified him that he could still perform it so smoothly, even freehand. He wasn't overly fond of balancing tools, although they were sometimes necessary.

He continued warming up: switching from heel to toe, pivoting to change direction, balancing on one foot. He'd expected more strain, but it was as though his body had been crying out for this. It responded beautifully, down to the minute twitches of his fingers and toes. In fact, the muscle memory he'd spent years developing hardly seemed diminished at all. Finally, Bilbo dared to perform an audacious back bend, over and over until his forehead was behind his heel. He smirked, curling his fingers around the wire and blowing a strand of hair which had stuck to his face. His bangs danged toward the ground as he hung, inverted. What next?

It was easier to go over than back, so Bilbo pressed down with his hands and rolled, a neatly controlled walkover that put his feet behind him again. He straightened, adjusting his balance, and considered. "Well, they're going to expect something more exciting than a back bend, Bilbo," he told himself, "And even if you don't plan to stay, you should at least enjoy this opportunity while you have a chance."

He'd kept up with his skills privately, but it had been a long time since he'd been this high above the ground, safe in the knowledge that the net below would cover any serious mistake. It made him adventurous, and a song came into his head: one of the last he had performed to, many years ago, and still one of his favorite routines. It exactly fit his mood: playful and brisk. He bounced a few times, gathering his courage, and then he _ran_ down the line, falling into first one cartwheel, then another.

 _'You've still got it, old boy,'_ he encouraged himself. Time for the finale?

Standing, he took several jaunty steps backward, building momentum, and then flipped, springing into a back handspring. He didn't plant the landing well. His feet slipped, but rather than ruin his momentum, he let himself fall, gripping the line with his hands and swinging around a few times until he got his feet back in place and regained the top of the line. Poised there, he savored the powerful, near-perfect lines made by his legs and back, still instinctual after all this time, before finally straightening on the wire.

Smiling, he slid down into a split position that hardly felt like a stretch at all, and that was when a high pitched whistle pierced the air, so shrill and sudden he almost fell again. Looking toward the ground, he saw smiling faces gazing up at him. A staggered but hearty applause was taken up, along with a few cheers. Bilbo's face went beet red. So much for not performing in front of an audience.

* * *

When Thorin entered the tent alongside Gandalf, he was in a foul mood. From his first shock that morning until now, the old meddler hadn't let up for a moment, and Thorin had had enough. He would watch this townie perform and then be done with it. "You'd better hurry," Bofur said, jogging up. "That little fellow Balin brought is ready to start."

"Pray that he doesn't hurt himself," Thorin grunted, already thinking of the potential liability. As Thorin reached the area of the tent where the high wire had been set up, he could see this Mister Baggins of Gandalf's clearly. _'He doesn't even have shoes on,' Thorin_ groaned inwardly, spotting the bare feet. This was bound to end badly.

A small crowd had assembled. Many of the regular performers were there. Thorin caught Balin's eye and scowled. However, rather than acknowledge his displeasure, Balin glanced fleetingly to the left. Thorin followed his gaze and froze. There, standing beside his brother, was Fíli. Thorin looked back to Balin, whose expression was full of significance. It was rare to see Fíli when there were so many people milling around. Yet here he was.

Above them, Bilbo Baggins made his final preparations and took his first tentative step out onto the wire. He didn't carry a prop, yet his posture was poised and far more practiced than Thorin would have expected as he went through a few preliminary motions. Thorin's heart went into his mouth when the man suddenly bent backwards, but aside from the gentle sway of his body on the line, he seemed in control. The walkover he performed next was genuinely impressive; Thorin could hear the others murmuring appreciatively.

Gandalf cleared his throat somewhere behind him, and Thorin's mood turned sour in an instant. "So he has a few tricks. What of it?"

"More than just a few tricks, as I think you'll see."

Overhead, Bilbo sprinted down the line. Ori's gasp punctuated the otherwise dead silence as Bilbo cartwheeled, not once, but twice. Cartwheels were terrifically difficult on so taut a wire, and to do it with such control – _No_. Thorin cut his thoughts off at the quick. He wasn't about to change his mind. Everyone at _The Company_ could perform feats impossible for others of their kind. This Bilbo wasn't so special. Nonetheless, his eyes were riveted as Bilbo set up for his next trick. Thorin's mouth fell open when the man flipped free of the wire. The landing didn't stick, but Bilbo caught himself expertly, using his ankles as a hinge to spin around before he turned upright again and regained the line. And he _laughed,_ as unselfconscious as a child. Bofur let out a shrill whistle of appreciation. Fíli, whose eyes had never left the wire, slowly brought his hands together, and then everyone was clapping.

Bilbo, for his part, looked mortified. Thorin could see the color on his face from here.

Gandalf stepped forward smugly, clearing his throat. "Well, Thorin?"

Thorin looked over toward his nephews, who had their heads together. Kíli was nodding, but what really cinched it was Fíli. His eyes were shining with pleasure. Thorin heaved a sigh, resignation overcoming his earlier protests. "Get him down here."

To his surprise, Bilbo didn't walk back to the platform but dropped into the net. His roll to reach the floor was a tad awkward, but it was clear that he'd worked with a net before. He trotted over, looking self-conscious. "Ah, Gandalf," he stammered. "I didn't realize anyone was watching."

"My dear Bilbo," said the old man. "You are full of surprises. I didn't know you had kept up with your craft quite so well."

Bilbo's face heated again, flushing to the tips of his ears, which peeked out of curly hair. He looked more like he should be arranging cabbages than working in a circus act. Even his physique seemed too soft for the hard work of a wire act. Yet the tricks he'd demonstrated had been of high quality. Whatever it was that allowed him to accomplish that, it must be hidden in there somewhere, no matter how incongruous the package.

So, against his better judgment, Thorin outstretched his hand. "Welcome to _The Company_ , Mister Baggins. We'll take you on for the season, if you're willing."

Bilbo, for his part, seemed not to know what to say. He looked beseechingly at Gandalf. Finally, though, he held out his hand and gripped Thorin's. It was still chalky and dry, and a little puff of white power escaped. "Ah, you have a deal then, Mister Oakenshield.

* * *

 **Next Chapter Summary** : Bilbo examines his motives for leaving home. Later he meets the rest of _The Company_ , including a reserved young man with a bearing not unlike Thorin's.

 **Footn** **ote(s)** :  
[1] Some notes on tightrope walking. Tight wire is a general term with subsets depending on the tautness of the wire and its distance from the ground: 1) Highwire performances are done at great height with a very taut wire; 2) Bounding wire is used closer to the ground and is loose enough for flexible, dynamic movement; 3) Slack wire or slacklining uses the lowest tension. Bilbo's feats, like those of other members of _The Company,_ will occasionally stretch plausibility, but his style is modeled after a real tightrope artist: Australian performer Con Colleano.

 **Author's Note(s):** So it begins. This is the first chapter of the monster story I've had in the works. In an attempt to prevent it from floating in limbo for another year, I've decided to start posting with an update goal of one chapter per week. It's been a while since _The Hobbit_ franchise ended, so I hope you'll comment if there's still any interest in an AU like this one. Let me know what you think of it or visit my tumblr account (see profile) for additional material on this story such as concept art.


	2. Blunt the Knives, Bend the Forks

**CHAPTER TWO:  
** Blunt the Knives, Bend the Forks

* * *

Bilbo could barely stop his traitorous hand from shaking. Only hours ago he found it scribbling his name on the bottom of a legally binding agreement which stated that he, Bilbo Baggins, was to become the latest act in _The Company_ for the duration of a six-month season, with remuneration including accommodation, travel expenses, and salary. There had also been an uncomfortably long list of liability information, enough to break him out into a sweat. Bofur, who had followed them back to the trailer, said, "Don't think too hard on it, Mister Baggins. Dismemberment hardly ever happens."

"Please don't mind him," Balin said. "Bofur has a sadistic wit at times, but we're very careful about safety here."

"Right," Thorin growled with so much emphasis that Bilbo nearly balked. Before he could, however, Gandalf handed him a pen and pointed to the line on which his signature should be inked. The old man winked, and somehow, without having made any particular decision, Bilbo's hand moved. He'd been signed on and congratulated, then shoved out the front gate with the firm order that he was to settle his business, gather a few personal belongings, and be back in time for supper.

As he turned the key and let himself into his home, Bilbo found himself walking around the familiar space, touching its surfaces. When his fingers stopped, they were on a silver frame which contained a picture of his mother. She was dressed in performing apparel, full eyelashes at half-mast as though she were flirting with the photographer. Bilbo knew his father had taken this picture on the evening the two met. He stared into her face, exactly as he remembered it from his most careworn memories.

"Gandalf said you left the carny life to raise me," Bilbo murmured. "Father never told me the full story. Never told me if you missed it or if you had regrets. I hope you didn't."

He thought about the future, and it gave him a heady feeling – like his toes were hanging off a platform. What was he doing? He was much too old to begin a journey of this sort. And yet… He looked again at his mother before lifting the frame and carrying it into his bedroom.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Mum," he said as he pulled a duffel out of his closet and began packing. "But something about this seems important. Or maybe it's like Gandalf said; maybe it's time I had an adventure."

* * *

By the time he returned, the circus grounds had transformed. Bilbo barely recognized it as the same makeshift place from only hours earlier. The main tent stood against the sky in three-tiered glory, bronze flags flapping in the breeze. On tall poles, strings of lights had been raised along the path leading from the gate, and to either side the midway had been constructed. There were colorful carts of all types, filled with carnival games and apparatus for preparing popcorn and cotton candy. Here and there, seemingly at random, were platforms, and Bilbo knew that on opening night they would be populated with wonders – jugglers and fire-eaters, strongmen and tumblers. Signs, too, had already been placed to advertise the main attractions. Bilbo recognized Nori's stenciled figure on horseback and Kíli with a drawn bow. Glóin and his son were painted on a billboard that stood above the others, the headliners for the coming performance.

Distracted, Bilbo wasn't watching where he was going, and as he passed a structure draped in velvet fabric, he ran directly into the person coming out of it. "Oomph!"

The man had a wild head of grey hair, but despite this sign of age, he didn't lose his balance or stumble. Instead, he turned toward Bilbo wearing a quizzical expression, his eyes overlarge behind a pair of spectacles. Reaching into a pouch hanging from his belt, he brought out an ancient looking hearing aid, which he affixed with difficulty. A high pitched squeal erupted once he set it in place, and he gave a huff of satisfaction. "There. Now, what did you say, laddie?"

Bilbo, who had said nothing, recovered his manners enough to duck his head. "Ah, I'm Bilbo Baggins. Sorry for running into you."

"Running in – oh, don't worry," said the older man. "Happens all the time. I don't hear so well with these old ears. Bilbo, did you say?"

"Yes," he answered. "The new act. Tight wire."

"Oh!" This garnered the full interest of his companion, who looked him up and down, nodding the whole time. "I heard about you from my cousin. My name is Óin, on-site medic. If you ever need looking after, you find me. On show nights, I also read the portents." He gestured toward the tent, and through the drapery Bilbo could see a round table surrounded by hanging bits of bone and colored glass. When he looked back at Óin, the man's merry eyes were twinkling. "Tell you your future, laddie?"

"Um," Bilbo stammered. He'd had quite enough interference with his fortune for one day and decided that escape was his best option. "Actually, I was looking for Balin. Do you know where he might be?"

Óin hemmed, scratching his chin underneath his beard, which was as grizzled and disorderly as his hair. "I think he's busy with Thorin at the moment, but he should be at supper. Do you know where that is?"

Bilbo remembered the field of grass interspersed with picnic tables. Offering his thanks, he bid goodbye to Óin and made his way around the main tent. "Stranger and stranger," he said to himself. Whether or not they were truly ancestors of Durin he didn't know, but these people did have the mien of a very eclectic group.

When he was in view of the picnic tables, he realized he was early. The only people there were small children, running between benches and calling out to one another as they played a tagging game. There _was_ the smell of good food, and Bilbo felt his belly grumble. He'd been so preoccupied that he'd entirely forgotten about dinner _and_ tea. Supper would be infinitely welcome. He only wished someone would tell him where to stow his things in the meantime.

On a whim, Bilbo decided to take a look around. There weren't many people about. In fact, Bilbo found himself almost entirely alone as he reached the outbuildings. He was walking by the horses, who eyed him with benign interest, when he heard a noise he couldn't identify. Curious, Bilbo walked further into the maze of steel bars. Near the center, isolated from the other cages, he found the source, though at first the sight was so incongruous he didn't understand what he was seeing. Oh, certainly he _recognized_ the animal, surrounded as it was by that iconic mane. Also teeth – very, very long teeth. The gravely sound came again, and this time Bilbo knew it for what it was, a rumbling growl.

 _'Lion,'_ his mind supplied at almost the same moment he made another, more horrifying realization. The beast was not alone. It was holding something between its paws, and as Bilbo watched, it gnawed on this object with relish.

Not an object. A person.

Bilbo bolted toward the barred gate, wrestling it with clumsy fingers. Somehow he worked the latch and, casting around, grabbed the only thing within reach. His heart pounding so loudly he could hardly hear his own shout, he burst in upon the scene and cried, "Back, you villain! Get off him!" and brandished the folding chair he'd seized with all the fierceness he could muster.

A young man straightened from between the beast's front paws, disheveled hair cast about in all directions. He raked his fingers through it, blinking with eyes that Bilbo recognized immediately – for he'd seen their match glaring out of Thorin's face. In fact, Bilbo knew him. It was the same young man he'd seen from a distance that morning. The one who'd struck him as so sad. Aghast, Bilbo asked, "Aren't you – is everything – I mean – the lion!"

As though aware he was the topic of conversation, the lion stretched out a foot the size of a soup tureen and spread his toes so that the tips of his claws became visible. He ran a thick pink tongue over his nose, then pressed his huge forehead against Fíli's shoulder. The young man rubbed his ears and neck. "Don't worry. Bungo was just playing."

Now that he was calmer, Bilbo found it easier to take in the entire situation, including Fíli himself. What Bilbo saw was a lad near twenty, though perhaps not yet so old. His hair, which was covered with bits of straw from the cage floor, was far curlier than it had appeared from afar. He extracted himself from the big cat, and with just a hint of humor, asked, "A folding chair, Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo lowered his makeshift weapon, feeling his face heat up. He wanted to justify his panic, yet when he opened his mouth, the only ridiculous thing to pop out was, "You're taller than I expected."

Fíli scoffed. "You must have met my brother. Kíli thinks that last growth spurt was his finest accomplishment, and, alas, he may be right."

It was exactly the kind of thing an older brother might say, and Bilbo relaxed. "Pleased to meet you officially. I'm Bilbo Baggins."

"Fíli," said Fíli and gestured toward the animal, who had turned over lazily onto his side. "And this is Bungo. You'll have to forgive his manners. He's an elderly fellow and mostly does what he pleases."

Bilbo peered closely at the animal. He could see signs of age: the ghosting of silver in his fur, the wrinkles across his face. But, no. They weren't wrinkles. Rather, they were scars. Several showed on the regal muzzle, which – Bilbo noted with a swallow of nervousness – was extremely large. "Ah," he said, beginning to edge toward the door. "Older, is he? Do you perform with him then?"

"No. Bungo doesn't perform." Fíli's expression darkened. "He used to, but his owners were mistreating him."

There was more to the story, Bilbo was sure, but the shift in mood made him reluctant to pry. Instead, he looked at Bungo. Not a performer, eh? Before he could censor himself, he asked, "What does one do with a retired lion?"

He was surprised to hear a sputtering sound from Fíli, hastily cut off and so brief that Bilbo wasn't sure what to make of it. When he looked, however, there was no doubt; Fíli's mouth may not have smiled, but there was something in his eyes that was much the same. "Bilbo Baggins," he said in an undertone, then commented, "I have to tell you, I was impressed with your routine."

"Really?" Bilbo couldn't help his flush of pleasure. It had been so long since he'd done anything but practice, and it was gratifying to know that these professionals didn't find him entirely discreditable. "Ah, I'm glad you think so. I was afraid I was going to fall off directly."

If anything, Fíli's expression grew warmer. He offered, "Are you looking for a place to put your things?"

They left the animal enclosures and entered the residential part of the back lot. Now that they were closer, Bilbo could hear the sounds of people laughing and talking out of sight. They must be resting before supper. Fíli lead him into a much smaller section were the trailers were arranged, not in uniform rows, but in a kind of cul-de-sac with its own tables and benches. A row of paper lanterns had been strung, lending the space a more homey atmosphere. There was even a tricycle. Fíli nudged it out of the way with his foot.

"Belongs to one of Bombur's kids," Fíli said, "He has a half dozen or so. Those trailers facing the other way are his, a bit apart, since his wife prefers the privacy. The rest of the performers live here."

Bilbo was lead to a trailer, up the stairs and into a narrow space outfitted with a desk, a set of bunks, a bureau, and another single bed. It was mostly tidy, though there were clothes lying in a pile on the topmost bunk and a stack of books and folders on the desk. There wasn't much decoration, but two posters had been pasted on the ceiling. Bilbo looked up, expecting obscure band titles or pinups, but recognized instead a print of Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ and, beside it, a faded circus poster – the kind that advertised a main attraction. Bilbo was squinting to discern its subject when the door behind him banged open.

"Fíli!" cried a familiar voice as its owner bounded inside. Hoping onto the top bunk, Kíli collapsed onto his back and spread his arms. "You'll never believe it. Gandalf convinced Thorin to let that Bilbo fellow stay after all."

Fíli moved Bilbo out of the way so that he could shut the door. "You don't say."

"You could sound a little more excited about it," Kíli said, rolling over. That was when he saw Bilbo, and his face broke out into a smile. "Mister Boggins!"

"Bilbo will be fine," Bilbo said, leaving aside the odd mangling of his surname. "Anyway, 'Mister' hardly seems appropriate if we'll be working together. But surely I'm not staying with you two." For it had occurred to Bilbo that this was where Fíli and Kíli lived, and with all the hints about outsiders being unwelcome, he'd received the distinct impression he was going to be shuffled to the furthermost reaches of the back lot.

Fíli seemed to sense what he was thinking, and gestured toward the empty bed. "You'll be staying here. Balin told me just an hour ago. Go ahead and make yourself at home."

"I can still hardly believe it," Kíli said, hanging off his bunk. His eyebrows were tangled in his unruly bangs, which Fíli tugged with a sigh as he walked past and seated himself at the desk. "Uncle hasn't brought on anybody new in ages. He argues with Mister Gandalf whenever someone crosses the threshold."

"Well, my father always said providence favored the foolhardy," Bilbo said, dropping his duffel. "And I really must be a fool, losing my head like this. I don't know what I was thinking."

Kíli grinned. "Oh, don't worry. You'll do fine! Anyway, we'll help you. Won't we, Fíli?"

Picking up a dirty sock from the floor, Fíli tossed it in his brother's face. "Perhaps you'll show a little decorum now that we have a roommate."

Nose wrinkled, eyes deeply censorious, Kíli said, "I know you have fig rolls hidden under your pillow."

Although he covered his mouth, Bilbo's sound of amusement wasn't completely muffled. Both boys turned in his direction. "Sorry, sorry. It's just, I didn't have any siblings myself."

"Lucky you," Kíli said, which made Fíli roll his eyes and turn his back, putting on a pair of reading glasses. "We have a million cousins. Practically everyone here is related to us somehow."

"Balin did say it was a family circus." Bilbo wanted to ask more about their history. He felt sensitive to the fact that there were many things going unsaid, however, and didn't want to risk falling on a painful topic, so instead he unzipped his bag and began placing his few belongings in the only bureau drawer that remained empty. He paused when his fingers touched the picture of his mother, but it was too late. Kíli's sharp eyes had already seen it.

"Who's that?"

Fíli looked up. "Leave it alone, Kíli. He's barely been here five minutes. He doesn't need an interrogation."

It was a gracious redirection, and somehow that made it easier for Bilbo to lift the frame and hand it to Kíli. "It's alright. This is my mother, or it was, a long time ago."

Kíli gazed at the petite woman with her rouged cheeks and vibrant, sequined outfit. "She was a carny."

Bilbo nodded. "As I understand it, she was born into the circus, but she left after she met my father. Still, she had a cloud swing that she practiced with. Some of my earliest memories are of swinging in it, tucked up against her." A smile came easily to his lips, for it was a gentle memory. Downy sunlight and the smell of talcum powder, the kind his mum had used for her hands. "We had a wire, too, when I got a little older. Of course, I thought it was a great game."

It seemed he'd found a firm foundation for kinship, because Kíli's limbs had gone loose with his own recollections. "I was more than nine before I realized not everybody had elephants living in their backyard or spent their afternoons learning tricks on a trampoline. Da was an acrobat, and he had us bouncing from the time we could hold our heads up, or at least that's what Balin says."

There was a touch of sadness there, and Bilbo ventured a guess. "They passed away?"

At the desk Fíli stiffened, but Kíli only shrugged. "Da died of influenza somewhere in Europe. Mum just isn't around anymore." Handing back the frame, he rolled over onto his back and yanked a magazine out from under a pile of laundry. Flipping through the glossy pages, he sighed longingly. After a moment, he turned the centerfold toward Bilbo. "One of these days I'm going to get me one of these." Bilbo moved closer. It was a beautiful old Harley, ablaze with chrome and long, curving handlebars. A truly impressive machine, just the kind to possess the fantasies of an adolescent male. No wonder Kíli sounded as though he were in love when he spoke of it. "I've been thinking of a routine I could do riding in on it, shooting from the saddle."

Fíli snorted. "In your dreams."

The younger of the two protested, "I've seen things like it done. Or with the horses! I tried to convince Nori, but he won't let me near the animals."

"That's because Nori is intelligent."

"Well, Bofur thinks it's a great idea. He might even go with me to pitch it to Uncle."

"Make sure to tell me when you do," Fíli said. "I wouldn't want to miss the inspiration for one of Bofur's comedy routines."

Kíli stuck his tongue out at his brother, who paid him no mind. Throwing his legs over the bunk, Kíli dropped to the floor and wrapped an arm around Bilbo. "He's no fun when he gets like this. What do you say we go find some entertainment before supper?"

Bilbo was interested in seeing more of the residential side of camp; however, he hesitated at Fíli's averted back. Balin had described Fíli as one who kept to himself, and he _did_ have a reserve that Bilbo didn't sense from the others, except maybe Thorin. It was something behind his eyes, something that could be discerned but not approached, and though Bilbo didn't know why, he sensed Fíli's mood had changed since they entered the trailer. Perhaps Kíli felt it, too, because he made a gesture with his fingers, almost like a kind of sign language, and waited until his brother waved them off. It confirmed what Bilbo already knew; these two might bicker, but even after observing them for so short a time, he was sure they were extremely close.

The screen door slammed against the trailer with a crash, and then they were out in the open air. The sun was almost down, and things had grown cool and pleasant. As they passed through the common area, a ginger head appeared. Ori stopped when he saw them. He looked high school-aged, maybe fifteen, with a scruffy goatee on his chin and freckles by the buckets. He clutched several notebooks to his chest and was shrouded in what looked to be an overlarge, hand-knitted jumper.

"Oh," he stammered, smiling tentatively at Bilbo. "It's you."

"And you're Ori," Bilbo said. "Balin told me you have a wonderful magic show."

The young man turned bright pink. "It's not that good. But you'll see for yourself. We have a show tomorrow." He turned to Kíli, somewhat bashful. "Is-Is Fíli in? I wanted to ask for his help." Kíli jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Ori hurried off at a trot, his books slipping in his grasp.

Bilbo waited until the adolescent was out of sight, then had to chuckle at the look of exasperation on Kíli's face. "Ori a bit devoted to Fíli, is he?"

"Seriously, you have no idea. Not that I blame him. He has his own brothers, but they treat him like a baby."

Bilbo thought back over his own abbreviated childhood. He'd liked his family and neighbors well enough, but there was no real connection. It was strange, but he already felt more rapport with Kíli and his quiet brother than anyone in his regular life. Vexed by his irrationality, Bilbo coached himself, _'You're colleagues, allied in a common business. Don't get attached so easily.'_ Aloud, he said, "I imagine Gimli looks up to you older boys, too."

"Gimli?" Kíli laughed, as if the very idea was ridiculous. "Gimli was born a senior citizen. To listen to him, you'd think he was the oldest. You certainly won't catch him mooning like Ori does."

Was that so? It was an interesting personality quirk, if it was true. But then, everyone here was strange. Kíli, who fit that description to a T, took hold of his arm and dragged him toward the eating area, which was illuminated by fluorescent lights on poles. Several children were still present, and Bilbo noticed they were dressed in a bizarre mishmash of patterns and fabrics – velvet stripes, polyvinyl polka dots, silk diamonds, and felt spirals – all of them stitched together with what seemed like a lunatic wit. The only thing tying it all together was the startling ginger hair possessed by so many of _The Company_ 's performers.

Kíli caught him looking and explained, "They're Bombur's. His wife sews all their clothes, and she hates to waste material. Uses the old costumes when they need replacing. They look a motley lot, don't they?"

Actually, Bilbo thought they looked whimsical, like they belonged in a dream rather than the real world. He soaked in the sight of the children, warmed by their untroubled dance of protected childhood. Adults were gathering as well, drawn by the hearty smell which emanated from the open kitchen and its adjoining trailer. A surprising number wore trimmed, well-tended beards, and all of them seemed to know each another. One smiled and waved, and Bilbo recognized Bofur's long mustaches.

"Kíli!" he hailed. "I was just looking for you. Thorin wants to see you before supper."

Kíli tensed. "Did he say why?" Bofur didn't answer directly, but the way he glanced in Bilbo's direction made him wonder if the summons were connected to him somehow. Kíli seemed as though he were wondering the same thing. "Bofur, will you keep an eye on Bilbo?"

The man clapped Bilbo across his shoulder blades. "I'll steer him right," he said, and once Kíli disappeared into the gathering darkness, "It's Bilbo, right? We'll probably see a lot of one another. My people bridge most of the acts."

It was a typical custom. Clown bits were used to tie the different performances together, bringing a continuity to the show as a whole. However, the reminder that he would soon be performing was like an elbow in the stomach. Bilbo squeaked out, "Yes, I suppose I will be working soon."

Bofur's smile was kind. "Not with this show, though. Thorin will expect you to work up to our standards, get to know the rhythm of things. I expect we'll be in the next town before you take center stage, in a manner of speaking."

Without the immediacy, Bilbo's nerves calmed. He even managed a tentative grin. "I see." He gazed at the gathering people. "I just wish I knew more. I feel so out of place."

"Such is the way for a First of May," Bofur said brightly. "But don't worry, you'll find your feet soon enough, and in the meantime, there's plenty of opportunity to make a few good friends." The offer was as clear as the look on Bofur's face, and Bilbo's heart swelled, but before he could stammer his thanks, Bofur had made a set of colorful balls appear in the palm of his hand. "Do you know how to juggle?"

The rest of the time before dinner was spent learning this fundamental skill, dropping the balls repeatedly on the ground or off his head while Bofur and the children laughed at his attempts. Soon, though, with much effort and encouragement, Bilbo began to get the hang of it. A prediction of his future here, he certainly hoped.

* * *

Supper, to Bilbo's surprise, did not take place in the public eating area. When the dinner bell rang, Bofur hustled Bilbo back in the direction of their trailers. There, the picnic tables had been pressed together, and a much more intimate group was gathering. Bilbo recognized Dwalin with his immense height and smooth head. He eyeballed Bilbo as the new performer was ushered into a seat near him, and Bilbo was freshly impressed by the bands of ink covering his muscled forearms and even the knuckles of his hands. Surreptitiously, he tried to take a closer look, but the runic symbols meant nothing to him. Also at the table was Balin with his dignified white beard, and the three brothers, Dori, Nori, and Ori. The older two seemed to be bickering with their smaller brother squashed between them. Across from Bilbo, Óin winked through his magnifying spectacles, and just down the line, Bilbo spotted the two aerialists, Glóin and Gimli. He didn't see Kíli yet, nor Fíli, and certainly not Thorin, whom he suspected could fill a room just by being present.

He jerked when a someone thumped down beside him, and his eyes went wide as he met the wild gaze of a stranger whose face was fringed by tangled salt-and-pepper hair. A glint caught the light, and Bilbo realized with a surge of horror that he could see bit of metal embedded in the newcomer's forehead. Shrapnel? The stranger stuck out an arm with sudden, jarring force. In a deep, gravelly voice, he grunted, "Добро пожаловать."

"A-ah." Bilbo hesitantly accepted the offered hand. Although he had enjoyed languages as a teenager, enough to recognize Russian when he heard it, he'd retained nothing but the most basic greetings. Profoundly nervous, he tripped his way around a garbled, "Очень приятно."

To his surprise, the crazy looking man laughed aloud, clapping Bilbo's shoulder so hard he almost knocked his forehead on the table. He spoke again, but this time Bilbo recognized nothing he said. He was saved by the timely arrival of Bofur, who solved at least one mystery with an introduction. "It seems you've met my cousin. This is Bifur. He's little on the rough side, but there's no one braver!"

"The bear tamer!" Bilbo remembered, and looked at Bifur with new appreciation. He could see a few old scars, white against the leathery skin, but none looked new. Shyly, he glanced away, already embarrassed by his outburst. "I mean, Balin told me about you earlier."

Bifur, whose gnarled features were still fixed in an expression of abiding pleasure, spoke again, and though Bilbo stared without comprehension, Bofur nodded. "Well said," he remarked, then pointed down the table. "That would be the other half of my family, my brother Bombur. We owe him the bounty of today's meal."

At the head of the table, laying down another platter, was the fattest man Bilbo had ever seen. His hips were easily wider than the table, and his pump face was cheerfully florid, though it had nothing on his hair, which was the most vivid shade yet. With an indulgent look, Bombur eased a bread roll into a grasping little hand peeking above the table top, then unselfconsciously helped himself to two more. He cleared his throat, as though to announce the readiness of the meal, and everyone settled in for what appeared to be nothing short of a feast.

All down the joined tables, plates of food had been spread out. Heaping piles of sliced beef and chicken, platters of roasted red-skinned potatoes and almost overflowing tureens of gravy. Bread in plenty, thick slabs of cheese. Grilled tomatoes, pickles and other cold niblets, plus pots and pots of condiments – brown mustard, mayonnaise, vinegar, and olive oil. The performers went at it with gusto, reaching over one another, serving themselves and eating with their hands. Great glasses of beer were poured and just as quickly disappeared, all amid a great convivial atmosphere of talking and joking. Bilbo hardly knew where to begin, and he was thankful when Kíli leaned over his shoulder.

"Help yourself, Mister Boggins," he said. "Otherwise you may go hungry!"

Glad to see a face he knew, Bilbo turned eagerly, only to stop when he saw Kíli's anxious expression. It was quickly gone, however, covered by a ready smile. Concerned that his meeting had not gone well, Bilbo wondered, "Are you alright?"

"Of course, absolutely." Kíli's head rattled, yet his dark eyes tracked around the gathering. "You haven't seen my brother yet, have you?"

"Ori is there," Bilbo answered, nodding in his direction, "But I haven't seen – oh, I've spoken too soon."

Just as he framed his response, Fíli appeared over the shoulders of the other performers. He spoke to Ori, who eagerly made space for him, and Nori, who had been arguing with his older brother so strenuously that bits of food kept flying out of his mouth, quieted down. Bilbo saw Ori sigh with relief.

"My brother the hero," Kíli muttered, the admiration in his voice liberally mixed with long-suffering. However, when Bilbo glanced at him, he seemed strangely troubled.

After that they tucked in with gusto, including Bilbo, who found his appetite restored. While they ate, he talked with Kíli, who gossiped in his ear about their table companions and answered any questions that sprang to Bilbo's mind. "So, why aren't we eating near the cookhouse?

"A good-sized circus has to have a pretty large crew. There are animal handlers and vets, lighting and sound technicians, carpenters, security. Plus plenty of other laborers called roustabouts, the folks who do most of the heavy lifting during the haul, putting up and breaking down tents and equipment. A few of the specialists stay with the circus indefinitely, but most come and go every few seasons. The roustabouts are temporary hires."

"Where do you hire people for that kind of job?"

"Oh, anywhere. Most every town has its share of folk looking for a paycheck. It's hard work and long hours, but we provide lodging and meals. It appeals to the kind who don't like punching a clock."

Bilbo mulled over this information. He remembered that Kíli and Fíli said they were born to circus life. Certainly for all those gathered here, _The Company_ was about much, much more than a paycheck. "Then the ones who come and go eat at the cookhouse," he ventured, "but the performers eat here."

"Most of the acts have been a part of _The Company_ for years and years," Kíli agreed. "We're family, many of us by blood. It's nicer to create our own little village."

"Does that mean we'll be seeing Thorin soon?" It occurred to Bilbo that he still hadn't seen the circus's leader, and as nervous as Thorin made him, it still bothered him that the ringleader was missing.

Kíli cleared his throat. "He won't be here tonight; too busy with last minute preparations. Actually, he often works late and eats on his own. Still, you'll see him from time to time."

One more question came to Bilbo, and though it clung to his throat, in the end he felt he must ask. "Kíli," he asked. "I appreciate how kind you've been to me so far, but I have to know – if the temporary crew eat by the cookhouse, then why am I here?"

"Because you belong here."

The new voice broke in even as Kíli opened his mouth, easily shouldering aside any other answer. Bilbo looked over his shoulder and found that Fíli had come to join them. Kíli shone like the sun after a cloud had passed. "I wondered if you were going to ignore me all night."

"I'm sorry," Fíli said. He ruffled his brother's hair, sending his bangs flying. "Ori was in dire straits."

"You don't always have to bail everyone out, you know," Kíli muttered under his breath, just a touch too solemnly to be joking.

His brother ignored him. Instead, Fíli turned to Bilbo. "You're a performer, Bilbo, and even if you're just here for the season, you're a part of our troupe now. Besides, I have a good feeling. New blood will be good for everyone."

Bilbo wasn't sure what to say, so instead he helped himself to another sandwich, letting his mind drift from conversation to conversation, listening and observing and trying to absorb it all. The meal continued for a rambling length of time, barely slacking in exuberance until finally the bottoms of plates began to be visible again. As belts were loosened, a humming started somewhere along the table, which was picked up by other voices. Within moments, the low, long murmur had turned to melody, and Bilbo heard his first after-dinner song:

 _"The world was young, the mountains green,  
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,  
No words were laid on stream or stone,  
When Durin woke and walked alone.  
He named the nameless hills and dells;  
He drank from yet untasted wells;  
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,  
And saw a crown of stars appear,  
As gems upon a silver thread,  
Above the shadow of his head._

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;  
Beneath the mountains music woke:  
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,  
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,  
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;  
The shadow lies upon his tomb  
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.  
But still the sunken stars appear  
In dark and windless Mirrormere;  
There lies his crown in water deep,  
Till Durin wakes again from sleep."

As the voices faded, Bilbo felt his eyes shining. There was something about the deep-throated voices, and though the song itself had little meaning to him beyond the whispers of an old, old story, he couldn't help but be moved by it. After that, several tobacco pipes came out, and a pleasant aroma filled the area as trails of blue smoke began to twist their way up into the night sky. A woman sitting with a small boy in her lap swatted at Bombur when he stoked her cheek with his thumb, and that was when the stories and conversations started, separate now rather than part of the general clamor.

"Another haul done," said Dori. He had a handkerchief out, which he used to mop his forehead. "It seems longer every time."

"That's because you're getting old," Nori goaded, but he did add, "Though it did seem longer today."

"Not enough hands," Óin said with disapproval. "We needed at least half a dozen more to erect the main tent, and lucky we are that no one was seriously hurt. As it is, I've had three sprains today, plus more bruises and smashed fingers than I care to mention."

"Please don't," muttered Ori under his breath, looking green. "I can't stand blood."

"Baby," Gimli hissed, only to be squashed under his father's armpit. The boy flailed, trying to free himself, but Glóin only tightened his punitive grip.

Balin, meanwhile, stood from his seat and set down his drink. The table silenced. Smiling, the elderly man braced his hands on the table. "As you all know, I've been a full-time performer with _The Company_ for more than thirty years. I've enjoyed every minute, loved every crowd, but it seems that age is finally getting the better of me." There were murmurs around the table, but Balin silenced them with a generous wave of his hand. "No, it happens to us all. Yet my absence will leave a gap, and to fill it, Gandalf has arranged for us to take on a new performer. Some of you have met him already, but for those who haven't, I would like to present Mister Bilbo Baggins."

All eyes turned toward him, and Bilbo felt himself break out in a sweat all the way to the bottoms of his feet. He tasted salt on his upper lip and sank down into his seat.

"Mister Baggins is a tightwire artist," Balin went on. "And a good one, as many of you witnessed. With the support of _The Company_ , I think he could become one of the best. I hope you'll all do what you can to make him feel at home. Mister Baggins," Balin looked him directly in the eye with unambiguous warmth. "Welcome to _The Company_."

A roar of applause and the thumping of mugs rose to answer him, and Bilbo was once again treated to Bifur's profoundly strong grip. On his other side, Fíli raised a glass, and Bilbo could see Kíli over his shoulder, beaming. However, not every face was welcoming. Even amid the general din of approval, he spotted Dwalin, who had not moved except to cross his arms, and – to his surprise – he spotted Dori and Nori exchanging dark looks. And there was still Thorin's absence to contend with. Nonetheless, Bilbo lifted his mug in a nerveless hand, stammering, "At your service."

The volume settled back to its original volume, but now Bilbo found himself the center of attention. Bofur leaned toward him. "So tell us, Bilbo, how did you come to be able to do those tricks. I've seen cartwheels before, and flips on a slack line, but I've never seen anyone tumble like that. Where did you learn it?"

Bilbo answered, "My mother taught me."

"She did an excellent job," Glóin praised, and his compliment carried real weight since he spoke with the authority of one who did such things for a living. His laughter rumbled deep in his chest. "My heart was in my mouth when you lost your footing. I thought for sure you were going to break your neck."

Bilbo rubbed the back of his still-intact neck. "I am a little rusty." In an attempt to direct the conversation away from himself, he said, "Honestly, I'd rather talk about _The Company_. Balin said it's been around a long time, but I don't recall hearing the name."

A subtle disquietude slipped through the gathering. Somber faces looked around at one another, and then Óin spoke. "We haven't always been called _The Company_. That name is relatively new. In times past, our folk were called the Sons of Aulë, and we were known far and wide as the _Erebor_ players."

Bilbo was so stunned he sucked in breath through his teeth. " _Erebor_? But I have heard that name. A famous circus, three hundred years old and more – the best talents in the world, or so they said. But I thought there was a fire." In the sudden dead silence, he looked uncomfortably at Balin. "Is that not right?"

The profound quiet made it easy for Balin to be heard. "No, you're right, laddie. There was a fire. It destroyed nearly everything, and not a few of our people. A tragedy that can hardly be felt, still less named."

Around the table, eyes stared solemnly. The young people ducked their heads, avoiding eye contact. Bilbo felt their hearts contracting, even after so much time, and his own squeezed in sympathy. "Was everything lost?

"The equipment, trailers, and facilities were all gone," Óin said. "Not a scrap of canvas remained. Just charred poles liked burnt bones and a few twisted bleachers. Moreover, it happened during a show and several audience members were hurt."

"And one child died," Glóin added.

Dwalin growled, "More than one child died."

No one dared speak for a long time afterward. Finally, though, Bilbo murmured, "I'm sorry for bringing it up. I can hardly believe such an accident happened."

"Accident?" Óin said, shaking his head. "Oh, no. I don't think so. It's true that there's an inherent risk to our occupation, but we know how to handle accidents. This fire wasn't a mistake. It blazed too hot and burned too readily. Something was feeding it."

"You can't mean you think it was sabotage." Bilbo's heart thumped at the very idea. He could hardly countenance such willful destruction and death. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Those who wished great harm on the Durins. Our people have always had enemies, down from the ancient days. The extinction of our bloodline, or at least our widespread dispersal and dissolution, would please some." Balin's hand strayed to his white beard, which he stroked thoughtfully. "In some ways, they have succeeded."

Kíli thumped the table. "Succeeded my foot. We're here."

"But diminished," Balin said with a sigh. "And so many spread throughout Europe, eking out a living where they may. So many children, growing up without a heritage."

The heritage he spoke of Bilbo knew little about. Of course, carny folk were known for their nomadic lifestyle, but these people were more than nomads. He remembered the runes on Dwalin's knuckles, the black tent with its copper stripes, and remembered the whispers about dwarves. Dwarves were a child's fantasy, beings separate from ordinary people with extraordinary abilities and a long history stretching back to the times before men clustered in cities and forgot the age of heroes, battle, and treasure. _'That isn't what they mean,'_ Bilbo told himself. _'It's their family heritage they speak of. They were a dynasty of performers and now they're struggling. There are no such things as dwarves.'_

Balin took back up the tale. "With everything gone and with public opinion against us, our people struggled to rebuild. It was hard to find the heart, there were so many burials. Moreover, although suspicions were explained to law enforcement, it was felt that blame laid with _Erebor_. We tried to start again, yet when we went to collect the insurance money, we were told the claim had been denied."

Bilbo exclaimed, "But how could they? Surely the circus was protected from fire, no matter what the cause."

"It certainly was. Yet our people were denied all the same, and though Thorin's grandfather took it to court and fought with heart and soul, the appeal was overturned and not one cent was awarded. The court costs only added to our burden, and we found ourselves destitute. The strain all but destroyed Thror, Thorin's grandfather. He died much too young, barely sixty, and it wrecked his son, who turned to despair. No one has seen Thráin for years."

"And everything fell to Thorin," Bilbo finished. Profound sympathy filled his heart. "That's terribly shameful."

"One of many shameful things," someone murmured, and Bilbo heard Kíli's sharp intake of breath.

Balin went on. "But Thorin has risen to every expectation. He scraped together a livelihood, held us together when many were drifting away. We found work, and with time we were able to purchase a stake in this circus. With it, we hope to rebuild something of what was taken from us. So far, we've done well. There's not so much fear as before about making ends meet."

"Yet there's still a debt," Nori spat. "Still the banks breathing down our neck, and still the stink of what happened poisoning our reputation whenever it becomes known. Having to bear whatever outrage, no matter how vulgar –"

"Enough!" Dwalin's interruption cracked out like a whip, and though Nori fumed silently, he did subside.

"Patience, brothers." Balin raised his hands, but he looked older than before, alluvial ridges spreading from eyes that spoke of pain. "We have overcome all suffering and survived. Let us think of future prosperity. Future healing, and not the pain of the past."

Such a thing was easy to say, but profoundly difficult in practice, Bilbo knew. Though years had passed since he watched his mother waste away, the pain of it was still an ache in his heart, dim in some moments but often keenly acute. He had not lost everything as these around him had, but he felt an echo of their loss in his own spirit, and he found himself longing to do anything that might help. He looked at his hand. Only hours ago, he had called it a traitor for signing that contract, but now he felt oddly resolved, his nervousness gone. His powers were small, but he would do what he could. He would try.

Eager to offer some small show of solidarity, Bilbo pushed to his feet and raised his mug. "To the success of _The Company_ ," he said. "May wounds be healed and your home be returned to you."

To propose a toast, especially one so lofty, was far bolder than Bilbo's usual character, and at first he stood in mortification when, instead of taking up his salute, the entire body stared at him without a single sound. Bilbo was stricken to find that he had so misjudged the moment. Yet when he looked around the table, what he saw was not disapprobation. Instead, there were several moist eyes. Slowly, Bifur also lifted his mug.

"За нашу дружбу!"

The spell broken, mugs filled the air and a great shout went up. Bilbo sunk back into his seat, a comfortable pool of warmth forming inside him, and he might have been wholly happy had he not looked to his left. There he saw Fíli, with his head bowed almost upon his crossed arms, and his brother beside him, an arm wrapped mutely around his shoulders.

* * *

 **Next Chapter Summary:** Bilbo attempts to (literally) find his footing, but he remains a stranger in a strange land.

 **Footnote(s):  
** [1] First of May is a term used to describe those joining the circus for their first season.  
[2] The after-dinner song performed by the company was actually sung by Gimli during The Fellowship of the Ring as they traveled through the mines of Moria. Its whole title is "The World was Young, the Mountains Green", but it's also referred to as "The Song of Durin". Its melancholy tone seemed right for this establishing moment in the story, even with the more modern setting.

 **Author's Note(s):** Why are you so long, chapter?


	3. A Good Morning, Whether I Like It or Not

**CHAPTER THREE:**  
A Good Morning, Whether I Like It or Not

* * *

Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, Bilbo had little difficulty falling asleep. In fact, he didn't wake until a voice spoke directly into his ear: "Bilbo, the sun is rising. It's time to get up."

Prying apart eyes that felt glued together, Bilbo stared blearily into the trailer's dim interior, which was illuminated by a camp light on the desk. Kíli was already mostly dressed, just pulling his loose-fitting hoodie from the day before over a black leotard. He grinned when his new roommate put his feet over the bedside and scrubbed his face.

"Carny days start early," he said, slipping on his shoes. He walked over to the lower bunk and shook an amorphous pile of blankets. "Up and at 'em, brother." Fíli's only response was to turn his back and cover his head with a pillow. As he pulled up his socks, Bilbo couldn't help but shake his head with good humor. Kíli's chipper demeanor seemed only natural, even at so ungodly an hour, but of the two of them, he'd pegged Fíli as the early riser. Not so, apparently. Kíli slammed open the trailer door, calling back to his brother, "I'm not saving you breakfast." Then he gestured at Bilbo, who was hopping into his second shoe. "You coming, Bilbo?"

The grass was dewy and fresh smelling as they entered the common area formed by the circle of trailers. A few others were about; Nori sat by himself, smoking a pipe. Glóin had a newspaper, which he read while drinking strong-smelling coffee. They also saw Bifur as he wandered toward the privies, still in his long underwear. Kíli headed for the cookhouse.

"Does Fíli not like getting up early, then?" Bilbo asked to make conversation.

Kíli didn't even pause as they reached the public eating area, where a buffet had been laid out. Pulling a drawstring bag off his shoulder, he confiscated no less than three apples and then stuck a scone in his mouth. His response was therefore muffled. "He doesn't mind. It's just nerves. He'll probably beat us to practice."

"Nerves?" Bilbo said, hesitating as he considered his own selection. "Does one still get stage fright after performing for so long?"

A pause, then Kíli answered, "I didn't say it was stage fright. Look, I have chores to do. You're going to be working with Fíli and me this morning, so be in the main tent by six-thirty, alright?"

Bilbo was overtaken by a feeling of abandonment as Kíli disappeared, leaving him quite alone for the first time since he'd stepped on-site. _'Well, old chap,'_ he encouraged himself. _'A little getting used to the premises wouldn't go amiss. What was it that Mum always said? "Know where you're going to put your feet," that's what. Good advice if I ever heard any.'_ So, scooping up a few more pastries, he set off to see more of the grounds.

Even so early, there was a lot going on. People were making ready for the night's performance. The way Bilbo understood it, _The Company_ usually spent a week in one town and then moved on. Tonight would be opening night. As he walked, he was impressed by the grand scale of things; there seemed no end to the outbuildings, storage units, and animal pens. In fact, he was on the verge of having to admit that he had gotten quite lost when a sound like a bugle going off made him nearly jump out of his skin.

Holding his chest, Bilbo whipped around to the slow approach of young Gimli sitting on top of an elephant. The animal had an easy walk, swaying slightly as her weight shifted, and as he watched she rolled her trunk in front of her forehead. For all the world, it looked like she was laughing at him. Affronted, he put his hands on his hips. "It's not very nice to frighten someone like that."

Gimli, who had guided the beast so that she stood abreast with Bilbo, shrugged. "Myrtle has a strange sense of humor." The lad sat tall, shoulders squared and legs stretched over the grey ribs. He looked so serious that Bilbo remembered Kíli's comment about Gimli being a born a senior citizen. He certainly did have an odd gravity about him.

"What are you up to?" Bilbo wondered.

"Walking," Gimli said. "Elephants like to walk, and Myrtle won't settle down properly until she's explored the whole area."

Myrtle took the initiative to introduce herself properly. Turning her head, she peered down at him with a great, liquid eye. Bilbo was astonished by it; he hadn't known that elephants had such long eyelashes. Acting on instinct, he brought up his hand and touched her truck, which she delicately manipulated, exploring the pads of his fingers and then his face, until finally she wrapped him around the waist, squeezing with gentle pressure.

Gimli gazed down on him with begrudging respect. "She likes you."

"She's certainly a beautiful girl," Bilbo said. "Do you need any help?"

"No. I do this every morning," Gimli said. "I wanted a dog, but my father won't let me have one. He's punishing me." The glum tone was so beleaguered that Bilbo smiled. Gimli might have an old soul, but it seemed in some ways he was still a child.

"There are a lot of people who would give their eyeteeth to even touch an elephant, never mind own one," Bilbo commented. He had one pastry left, wrapped in a napkin. He offered it to the boy astride Myrtle. "It's strawberry."

There was a barely discernible hesitation, and then Gimli reached down. "Father never lets me have any. Says they make you heavy and lethargic." A slow smile worked its way onto his face, and he licked one of the edges in defiance. Eyes fixed on his treat, he offered the crumpled napkin to Bilbo. "I don't need it. Will you throw it away?"

Myrtle was investigating Bilbo's curls, which seemed to fascinate her. She didn't like it when her rider urged her on but complied with a bob of her head. As they turned the corner, Bilbo saw her peering back at him, her sinuous trunk flitting as though to say goodbye. He waved. It was only once they were out of site he realized he should have asked them for directions. "Oh, bother," he muttered. "Bilbo Baggins, you really are a featherbrain."

* * *

Fortunately, as the day grew lighter, Bilbo couldn't help but see the inverted curve of the big top, and he made it to practice only a few minutes late. Fíli and Kíli were already there, stretching beside the most enormous trampoline Bilbo had ever seen. It was easily large enough for three people, and though it was clearly old, he could see it was well tended – freshly greased springs, a rectangular bed that showed signs of meticulous mending, and a study frame polished with the passage of a hundred handholds. He touched it briefly. "This is how you practice?"

"Mostly just to stay limber," Kíli said. "We only use the trampoline for a few tricks in the show."

His brother shook his head in exasperation. "One of those tricks is fairly important."

"Whatever." Kíli hoisted himself up onto the frame and reached a hand down to Bilbo. "You've used one before?"

Of course he had, although never one so large. It was one of the ways you practiced flips and other stunts before you tried them on the line, and as Bilbo was quite flexible, he'd always enjoyed seeing how far he could push himself. Accepting the hand up, he tested the surface. Kíli obligingly got out the way and let him warm up, and before long they were taking turns turning over, doing leg lifts, and tumbling. Fíli was better at it than either of them. When he was in the air, he seemed to have near perfect control of his muscles, his feet always pointed and his turns exact.

When Bilbo commented on it, Kíli chuckled. "Well, he does have that _very important trick_. Still, I guess he needs to have something he's good at. I'm definitely stronger, and I've got better aim."

"You wish," Fíli said, flopping down beside them, perspiration dampening his hairline and causing tight curls to form. He swiped a towel over his neck. "Bout time we do a real run through. Are you going to use the wire, Mister Baggins?"

"Just Bilbo," said Bilbo. "And yes, I suppose if you're not going to let me watch, I should go practice on my own."

Kíli winked. "You'll have to wait until tonight to see what we can do. It'll be better as a surprise."

Bilbo _was_ curious. Although he knew the specialties of many of the trope, he only had a vague idea about what these two actually _did_ in their act. From bits and pieces of conversation, Bilbo knew that Kíli used his bow and that Fíli was an acrobat, but other than that, he had only conjecture. Seeing the cheeky look the two were sharing, they seemed to think they were going to impress him. Well, time would tell. Saying a temporary farewell, he headed to the part of the tent where the high wire and trapeze were set up. The net was still there, so Bilbo had no qualms about going through his paces. However, he had barely put one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder when an unexpected voice spoke.

"Mister Baggins."

Thorin had appeared as though from thin air, looking much the same as the day before: hair trimmed very short, eyes that seemed to pierce beneath the surface, and a strong, bearded jaw. In his fist hung a pair of thin-soled slippers. He held them out to Bilbo.

Cautiously, they were taken in hand. "What are these?"

"They're the slippers you're to wear on the wire," Thorin answered matter-of-factly.

The offending shoes hung from the tips of Bilbo's fingers, his nose curled as though he were holding a particularly smelly fish. "Shoes? But I never wear shoes!" He looked down at his bare feet, which were thick soled and as natural to him as sneakers were to other people. "Barefooted is the way I was taught. It's traditional."

"Going barefoot on the wire is for beginners, and there will be no such person performing in my circus." As he spoke, Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, an action that made him seem larger. Intentional or not, it was meant to intimidate, and an uncommon flair of temper kindled in Bilbo's chest.

"Now, look here," he said. "I may not have experience in a circus like this one, but I've been working on ropes and wires for most of my life, and I am not a beginner. This is a family matter to me, something that connects me with my past, and my people work barefoot."

From the brief slackness of his mouth and the way his eyebrows climbed his forehead, push-back wasn't something Thorin expected. His stupefaction was short lived, however, leaving Bilbo to wonder how so coldly unfeeling an expression could simultaneously feel like a furnace for heat. "Mister Baggins. if you're going to stay here, there are a few things you need to understand. The first is that this is _my_ circus. For this reason, when I tell you that a certain piece of equipment is required, you _will_ use it. The second is this: the reputation of the circus and the safety of its people are my responsibility. You do anything to compromise that, and I swear to God that you'll be back to counting cabbages before you find the words to voice a protest."

Gaping, Bilbo stammered, "I –"

Thorin didn't wait for Bilbo to find his voice. Instead, he shoved the shoes into Bilbo's chest. "Get used to them."

With a flourish that seemed unaccountably dramatic in so stoic a figure, Thorin turned and stalked off, leaving Bilbo holding the slippers. Looking down with a grimace, he turned them over, feeling the supple leather. He sighed. "Well, Bilbo, you're not working for yourself anymore," he murmured. Time to follow orders.

* * *

For the sixteenth time, Bilbo careened off the wire and landed in an ignominious pile in the netting. The offending shoes made his footing less sensitive, threw off his balance, and cut off the intimate connection he'd always felt between himself and the wire. As a result, he was barely able to walk in a straight line, much less perform with his usual agility, and he kept falling. Laying back against the net, Bilbo flexed his fists and fought back an outburst of frustration.

A tug on his ankle brought him back as a gruff voice asked, "Are you alright?"

Bilbo sat up slowly. Glóin was standing at the edge of the net. He didn't appear concerned, but there was no mockery in his expression either. Bilbo rolled to the ground, fighting embarrassment. There, he lifted his feet, as uncomfortable as a cat in boots. "I can't get used to them."

Glóin nodded. "Aye, it's not easy finding your balance again."

"I don't see why I need them!" Bilbo blurted, flushed with outrage. "I've been working on a wire for ages, and I've never used them before."

Glóin possessed an odd build for an aerialist, barrel chested and muscular, like his son. His beard was trimmed very short by necessity, but like so many of _The Company_ , it was a fiery red. Like his hair, which was braided flat and adorned with beads. It wasn't hard to see where Gimli had gotten his seriousness, as Glóin's long, considering pause was one of unhurried reflection. "Do you know why he wants you to wear them?"

"He told me it made the circus look bad to have amateurs performing," Bilbo repeated bitterly.

"Oh? Thorin does care a great deal about _The Company_ 's reputation, but I think there's another side you may not see. I know that some casual practitioners use a softer rope, but here it's reinforced with steel, and the braiding is coarse. Going barefooted is dangerous. An unexpected movement could take the skin off, and we wouldn't want that, Mister Baggins."

Taken aback, Bilbo stammered.

"Thorin cares about his people," Glóin said with such firmness that Bilbo didn't dare contradict him. "As for the adjustment needed for the shoes, well, I've seen it done before, and I've no doubt you'll manage. It will just take patience and some confidence in the purpose behind them." He raised an eyebrow, and Bilbo felt his ears heat up.

"Thank you, Glóin," he said quietly.

The older performer gripped his shoulder. "My pleasure, laddie. Now, are you too tired for another attempt?"

Bilbo looked up and up at the wire from which he had plummeted so many times. New resolve filled him, and he took a step toward the ladder.

* * *

 **Next Chapter Summary:** Welcome to opening night of the world-famous circus, _The Company_!

 **Footnote(s):**  
[1] Domesticated elephants have been working alongside humans for thousands of years. However, because of historical abuses, most modern circuses don't have non-native animals anymore. I'm supportive of this; however, for the purposes of this story, we're just going to assume that the Durins take immaculate care of their animals.  
[2] Professional tightwire artists generally work in thin, leather-soled shoes which allow flexibility while also protecting from the coarseness of the braided wire, which can cause bruises, scrapes, and cuts. To go barefoot is the mark of a hobbyist who might require the use of the gap between their toes for grip and balance.

 **Author's Note:** Sorry this was posted a bit late; busy day! Hopefully you found it worth the wait. Next chapter, you'll finally get to see the circus perform on opening night. Which leads to a question. Are you able to visualize the action so far? It took trial and error to figure out the best way to describe the movements of characters on the trapeze, tight wire, and trampoline, and I'm curious if you've found it successful so far.

 **Shout Out:** To silverwork4furs for their awesome photosets based on this story. Go check them out at her Tumblr page or mine!


	4. Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!

**CHAPTER FOUR:  
** Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!

* * *

Opening night came.

Outside, the sky was splashed with stars. They burned almost as bright as the midway lights, which stretched down the long path to the gate, through which future patrons could be seen parking their cars, placing children on their shoulders, queuing up to pay for tickets. Even standing beside Óin's tent, Bilbo could feel the building anticipation. Tonight he, too, would be a spectator. He would see _The Company_ perform for the first time, and his palms had gone sweaty thinking about it.

Everyone was busy with final preparations, and good smells were everywhere: frying corn dogs, cotton candy, and the sweet-salty smell of roasted peanuts. Bilbo slipped inside the main tent and found Kíli testing the barrier that separated the audience from the ring. His practice clothes were gone. Bilbo had been surprised to find that none of _The Company_ wore the flashy, brightly-colored costumes usual in the circus. Instead, the color palette was rich and dark – burgundy, viridian, onyx, bronze. Kíli's included a royal blue tunic threaded with silver.

His face lit up when he caught sight of Bilbo. "Ready?"

"More than ready," Bilbo agreed. "Where's Fíli?"

A shrug was his only answer. "He's around. There's always things to do before a performance, you know?"

Bilbo could only imagine. Because of his late arrival, he hadn't yet been set a full roster of duties, though he was certain he would be initiated into that aspect of circus life soon. For now, though, he would enjoy his last night as a civilian. "You'll wish him luck for me, won't you?"

"I will, Bilbo. Hey, why don't you head backstage to Clown Alley? It's always fun before a show. Then you can join the guests in the midway; it should be opening in just a few minutes."

Clown Alley was beside the main tent, a dressing room for the clown performers who would fill the intervals between acts. As he approached, Bilbo could see the light spilling out of an open flap. Easing inside, he was almost blinded by a line of mirrors. The energy level was incredible, fueled by people leaning around one another to apply make-up or climbing into their clothes. The noise, too, was overwhelming. Intending to keep out of the way, Bilbo took a step back, but two small bodies streaked behind him as he did so, shrieking with laughter.

He kept his balance only because Bofur grabbed his arm. The man gave him a wink. "Can't be too timid around here," he advised. "Next time just give them a swift kick."

Bilbo found a spot by the wall, mesmerized by the buzz spiraling all around him. There was so much movement that his eyes grew tired, until finally they settled on one particular scene in the midst of the chaos. Bombur, his face already painted, sat quietly before a mirror. He held one of his smallest children on his lap, a lass only a few years old. While Bilbo watched, he dabbed the toddler's nose with bright red paint. She burbled with delight. The tenderness on Bomber's face was so clear it made Bilbo uncomfortable, as though he were intruding on a private moment, so he slipped out of the tent and back into the night.

* * *

After the dimness of the back lot, the midway was a riot of color. Bilbo arrived just as it came into full swing. Teenagers played games of skill and chance, throwing rings or balls or – Bilbo had to take a second glance – _were those daggers?_ Adults leaned into the tents, studying curiosities. Everywhere, people's eyes were shinning.

Bilbo recognized only a few of the vendors as he strolled along, but when he reached the sideshow, he was struck by the sight of tattooed Dwalin, juggling three enormous axes. Bilbo squeaked when Dwalin seemingly lost control, sending one axe flying much higher than the others, but he needn't have worried. Dwalin seized the remaining axes in one enormous hand, then plucked their wayward brother out the air, easy as swatting a fly. Then, while the crowd gaped, he slammed it forward, embedding the blade in the platform's surface. The onlookers recoiled with delighted screams while Bilbo, feeling a bit faint, turned away.

Bilbo drifted with the tinned music that was straight out of his most reoccurring dreams. He saw people come together and separate, like short scenes in a play, and he a mere observer. Young people touching hands under the veil of activity. Small, starry-eyed children straining at the end of their parent's hand. The bunched wrinkles on a careworn face as its owner smiled, transported back in time. Interspersed were the beckoning gestures of the carny folk, charming all comers to 'Step right up and take a chance' at one of the many booths. It really was a feast for the eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw a little girl pressed against her mother's side, her eyes riveted on a kneeling figure. Bilbo recognized the curled toes of the boots immediately, but in all other ways, Bofur was transformed. No longer was he the boisterous fellow who had welcomed Bilbo with cheerful taunts of decapitation. His face was sponged white so the natural wrinkles of his skin – the laugh lines around his eyes, the crinkles framing his smile – stood out plainly. He was also wearing the most ludicrous hat that Bilbo had ever seen, with wild flaps fanning out like enormous furry wings.

While the child watched, Bofur reached into his jacket and withdraw a dangling bit of rubber. With a slow, exaggerated breath, he drew it out into a silver arc. Then he twisted, the balloon squeaking as it was remade. When finished, it was an elephant, legs and trunk, and the girl, whose grip had slackened, took a daring step forward. Curiously, she reached out to touch Bofur's magnificent hat. The pair exchanged the loveliest of smiles. Then Bofur clucked her chin, and she giggled.

The guests departed, the balloon elephant secure in the little girl's arms. Bilbo had no doubt it would be a golden memory, tucked away for as long as childhood lasted. Bofur, meanwhile, had straightened to brush off his pants, and Bilbo began to speak, a greeting already on his lips. It died when Bofur caught his eye and gave a minute shake of his head. One long finger came up over his lips, and he winked. Shh.

* * *

The seats were packed. The midway had spun its web of magic, and now as spectators sat in near darkness, barely able to see beyond the bleachers, the spell was complete. A hush fell, extinguishing the murmurs. There was the cry of an infant, a cough, a shuffling sound, and then nothing. The draped entrance, which until now had admitted an intermittent glow from the electric lights outside, dropped shut.

Alone in the dark, Bilbo felt a shiver of suspense pass over his skin. It was as though he were standing in a vast cave, the ceiling arching unseen overhead. How high was it?

A single spotlight fell into the center ring, illuminating a figure in a velvet top hat. Bilbo's breath caught, for there was no mistaking that profile. It was Thorin. Bilbo took him in – the boots with their intricate tooling, the coat of fur and leather, the metallic links of a silver belt – and, though he knew what Thorin looked like in the full light of day, it was as though he was seeing the man for the first time.

Thorin stretched out his hands, and a blaze erupted! Long lines of torches came to life, piercing the eyes and dazzling the mind. A gasp went up as the torch bearers were revealed, for the flames were held aloft by the performers of _The Company_. Without warning, the entertainers roared, thirty or more male voices. It was like being inside of a timpani drum.

A spurt of fire, and Bilbo recognized Balin, heaving a ribbon of flame from his mouth. Tumblers emerged, creating impossible shapes with their bodies. And suddenly there were horses! Their hooves flashed like starlight as they raced the circumference of the ring with a man standing on their backs! A trumpet thundered, and Bilbo saw Myrtle saunter proudly forth, swaying her head from side to side. Music began playing, but not the lively, canned tunes that Bilbo had always associated with circuses. This had a tempo that thrummed, hot against one's temple. It wasn't frivolous. It wasn't lovely. Rather, it was dark, somber. Fierce.

 _'Like the sound of an old song,'_ Bilbo thought breathlessly. _'Like an old, old song, peopled with heroes and warriors.'_

Then all movement froze. Only the flickering of the torches moved, and it was in that rictus that Thorin stepped forward and raised his voice. It carried with the same natural authority of their first meeting, rasping in a timbre so low and clear that it reached every ear within the sloping walls. "Welcome," he said. "The house of Durin is at your service. Tonight you become witness to the legacy of the dwarves, corroborator of our great skill. Watch and see, and carry it out in your heart. Behold our strength!"

A spotlight jolted to life, and Dori was illuminated as he hefted a huge weight first to his shoulders and then, with an audible grunt, over his head.

"Our grace!"

Twin voices shouted from the ceiling. A cry of awe came involuntarily from the lips of the audience as Gimli and Gloin dropped away from opposite platforms of the flying trapezes until, as one, they released, flying in beautiful tucked positions until they connected with the reverse swings.

"Our daring!"

It was the boys now. Kíli's cheeky bravado was all over his face, and as the light caught on Fíli's hair, it went hissing though like a spark through gunpowder. Both were armed. Fíli held a dagger. Kíli had his bow drawn. Both loosed their weapons, and cries from onlookers echoed because it seemed – it _seemed_ – they aimed at each other. But, no. It was an illusion only. The projectiles passed harmlessly by, finding the hearts of wooden targets that Bilbo had not seen until that very moment.

"Our enchantment!"

A plume of crimson smoke swarmed up, wriggling as though alive around a figure in a long, velvet robe embroidered with runes that glowed. _Ori_ , Bilbo realized with a jolt. He hardly recognized the shy, bumbling lad in this being of power, whose frightening laugher echoed like the voice of a titan and whose raised hands seemed to conduct the monstrous columns of living smoke.

"Our courage!"

There was a disturbance as a bear – a bear! – charged into the ring. The crowd recoiled as the huge animal reared, bellowing in a voice that made the bleachers rattle. Terror had time to squeeze its fingers around every heart, but just as panic brought people almost to their feet, a wild figure stepped in front of the monstrous beast. Bifur shouted unintelligible words that had no meaning. The huge paws reached for him – and then stopped. Swaying, the animal dropped to all fours. Bifur bowed.

The alarm brought by the bear did not last, for a merrier sound of the calliope stole away fear as a whole troupe of giggling, pirouetting clowns spilled out of every shadow. "Our charm!" they cried, blowing raspberries at the audience, balancing on balls while flashing bright eyes and painted grins. They spun away as quickly as they came, taking the music with them, and Thorin stepped into the center again.

"Our pride," he said finally, and his eyes smoldered, even from so far away. Bilbo felt the weight of them even from the bleachers, and once again he felt as though he were not in the present at all, but swept into a past he hardly knew. In that one moment, Thorin's eyes had not looked like those of a man, and the pride that he spoke of did not seem like a boast. Bilbo could hardly explain it, even to himself. He didn't know what it meant, but the feeling was there, as tangible as a living thing.

The marvelous introduction complete, the rings emptied as instantly as they had filled, until only the single spotlight remained. In his role as ringmaster, Thorin spoke one more time: "Ladies and Gentleman, I give you _The Company_."

And so it began, as his words faded into the dark.

* * *

The first act was a series of performances, one after another. Dwalin and his flashing swords came first. He juggled them as fearlessly as though they were rubber balls, careless when they caught the light and became almost too bright to see. Eyes spotting, Bilbo blinked barely in time to see the final weapon land neatly in Dwalin's hand, just as a spurt of flame erupted and Balin the fire eater stepped forward into his brother's place. After that came Nori. A few younger people performed with him, but he was like none of them. A true horse master, the creatures moved with him as though they were connected at the soul, and they responded to his commands without any verbal cue that Bilbo could see.

The crowd was primed by the time the unassuming, robed magician appeared in another plume of smoke. Ori opened a book and blew on its pages, filling the air with a sparkling, luminescent spray of dust. He chanted, and a shadow climbed from his feet and towered over them. It was huge, scrapping the ceiling, and its lines were stark, as stark as though they were solid. Ori made playful claws with his tiny fingers, and the shadow's fingers stretched down toward the audience, who writhed and shrieked with terrified laughter.

 _'What is this trick, and why can't I stop sweating?'_ Bilbo caught himself thinking as he shrunk in his seat.

Ori snapped his fingers, and flowers sprouted from his hand in one of the magician's most classic tricks. He extended them, and so did his shadowy echo. Then suddenly, they burst from its hand like bats in flight. The winged shadows fluttered over every surface of the tent, wonderfully frightening. Then Ori pulled out a top hat and began pulling rabbits – rabbits made of smoke which flew and sizzled through the crowd, sifting around knees and darting through fingers. The child beside Bilbo was entranced as one ephemeral creature paused to sniff her extended hand before evaporating in a puff as though it had never been.

Bilbo remembered the claims made in the brochure – a magic act to mesmerize the senses. _'How true it is,'_ he thought. He had never in his life seen anything like it.

* * *

All of the acts were wonderful, but a few stood out more than the others. Ori's mesmerizing shadow creatures had awakened the wonder-fear of the audience. Now the whimsical clowns took his place. It started with a burst of sound as laughter echoed – deep and high, adults and children – and then the clowns bounded forth, throwing themselves into wobbly dives that looked like falls, but which turned into graceful tucks and rolls that propelled their practitioners lightly to their feet. With a start, Bilbo recognized some of the smallest figures, dressed almost as he had seen them amidst the benches. They were Bombur's children, all dressed in sequins, stripes, and stars. They had their brief moment in the spotlight, and then departed, leaving behind only one clown.

In the center stage was white-faced Bofur in his curled boots, but without his comical hat. Instead, his _chapeau_ had changed into a top hat not unlike the sleek velvet one Thorin had worn. _This_ version, however, was almost comically large, and all its parts – the brim, the band, and a curling green feather – were distorted caricatures of those a person might really wear. He had also donned a magnificent jacket with tails, and it occurred to Bilbo that Bofur _was_ Thorin, or at least a puckish version of him. The delight it brought seeing that stern figure recast in such ludicrous fashion brought a sudden, fierce grin to Bilbo's face.

In his character as "ringleader", Bofur gave a flourishing bow. As he took off his hat, a bird flew out, startling everyone – Bofur included. Shocked by this turn of events, Bofur stared into the dark interior of his own hat. Cautiously, he reached inside – and reached, and reached – until at last his arm was buried to the shoulder. Withdrawing, Bofur scratched his head. He stuck the hat back on his brow, and it swallowed his head to the neck! Quickly pulling it off, Bofur again peered inside, squinting as though into great distance. Placing the hat on the ground, he flourished his gloved fingers, causing a colorful red ball to appear. He dropped the ball into the hat. Afterward, he picked up the hat, turned it upside down, and shook. The red ball did not fall out. He shook the hat vigorously. He reached deep inside, grunting and craning, but though his arm disappeared once more, the red ball remained lost.

Finally, Bofur let the hat fall to the floor, where it stood, brim pointing upward. Bofur glared at it. Then he made the mistake of getting audacious. He put his foot inside...and almost fell, as though the ground had gone out from under the hat entirely. Sunk to the thigh, he began waving his arms frantically in a mute pantomime of a cry for help – for the clowns of _The Company_ , it seemed, were silent clowns.

Then suddenly a rescuer appeared! Waddling out into the center ring, his enormous girth made even larger by a set of huge suspenders, came Bombur. He was wearing red and gold striped pantaloons that ballooned around him, and his florid face was highlighted with eye makeup and a red, protruding nose. He ran to Bofur and, seeing his forlorn situation, immediately grabbed him by the ears and began tugging. He pulled so hard that he fell backwards, rolling onto his back in an immensely humorous somersault that left him face down on the floor. Bofur was freed, but he wasn't happy about it. Clinging to his wounded ears, he silently rocked and wailed. The child beside Bilbo cackled at his morose antics.

When Bofur stood, he approached the prostrate Bombur. He stomped his foot, a demand for the other clown to face him, but though Bombur rolled from side to side and waggled his limbs, he could not right himself. Only when Bofur pulled – and was practically squashed in the process – did they end up on their feet. As punishment for his clumsiness, Bofur heartily whacked his fellow clown with his improbable hat while Bombur looked cowed. By way of apology, he tried to set Bofur's ruffled bowtie to rights, but his fingers became stuck and, though he tried to pull away, all he managed was a farcical tug of war.

"He's silly. He can't do anything right," whispered the child to her father, who nodded knowingly.

Bilbo smiled, too, for he recognized these dynamics. It was a version of a classic bit, in which the lead clown bullied a bumbling companion. Bofur, in the guise of ringmaster, was a clever reimagining of an old, old character: the serious Pierrot. Bombur, on the other hand, with his bushy red hair and beard and exaggerated size made the most nearly perfect Auguste Bilbo had ever seen. In fact, he might have been born for the part.

Bofur, it seemed, had regained his composure. Setting his hat elegantly on his head – it stayed where it should this time – he clapped his hands, gesturing imperiously at a large wooden box. With an exaggerated salute, Bombur attempted to open it. He had little success, however, for every time he loosed one of the complicated locks, a small trapdoor opened and a hand shot out, refastening it. Again and again he failed to open all the locks, all while Bofur stood to the side, tapping his foot impatiently. Finally, Bofur could take no more waiting. His hat came off his head, and once again he whacked the pitiful Bombur with it.

Then he unhooked the locks – which he did without interference – and the lid fell open. Bofur gestured, and though Bombur gave him a soulful look, he obediently scuffled forward on his hands and knees in an attempt to reach into the depths of the box. It did not work. He was far too large and became stuck, his enormous bottom inflating outrageously in his puffy pants. The audience, especially the youngest of them, howled with laughter. It was only with much pulling and puffing that Bombur was freed, and when he sat up he was wearing a French horn. Or at least it looked like a French horn, though it was the strangest one Bilbo had ever seen. It was oversized and wrapped around Bombur's entire waist. The bell was warped as though it had taken a beating, but Bofur finally looked pleased.

He withdrew a conductor's wand and flourished it. With a one, and a two, and a – _Fffffphlaaaa-laaa-laa-fffphlano-laaaph_! The most incredible sound emerged from the horn, like a long, melodious fart forced through a windmill. The force of it was so great that the wind reached the bleachers, and Bilbo's hair whipped around his ears while the smell of piping hot cotton candy sizzled through his nose, so strong he almost tasted it. It knocked Bofur completely off his feet, and he lay flailing while Bombur played on, his eyes closed and his rosy face set into an expression of rapture. Only by crawling forward with crabbed hands was Bofur able to reach his brother, and there he gave a wordless shout so loud that, with a whiffling snort, Bombur stopped playing. Once again the clown was beaten with the ubiquitous hat, and once again, the children of the audience cried tears of laughter.

Bofur moped his forehead with an overlarge handkerchief. He gestured with a limp wrist toward the edge of the spotlight, and Bombur hastened offstage, soon returning with a large pitcher. Of course, he stumbled at the final moment, and the water went flying in a beautiful arch onto the faux ringmaster, who turned just in time to take the entire contents onto his astonished face.

Horrified, Bombur turned and ran away, but Bofur was apoplectic and chased him around and around. Bilbo's seat mate was laughing so hard that her father had to pat her on the back, trying to calm her so she didn't choke. He whispered to his daughter, "Take a few deep breaths there. Don't pass out before the finale."

And the finale, it seemed, had come, for Bombur tripped, rolling over and over until he finally stopped flat on his back. Bofur ran into him head long, only to be bounced backwards by the balloon pantaloons. Recovering, he hauled Bombur up by his suspenders and pointed. An enormous cannon was being rolled into the ring by several other clowns. Under the lights, the cannon gleamed. Bombur made an audible squeak of terror. However, with an unmistakable stab of his finger, Bofur demanded that Bombur climb into the cannon.

Bombur shook his head wildly. He wrung his hands and whined. He "fainted", peeking hopefully at his brother from the floor. But Bofur only stomped his foot and made his demand again. Finally, scuffling like a wounded dog, Bombur approached the cannon and laboriously climbed into its mouth. At first it seemed he could not fit, but at the last moment he tucked, ball-like, and disappeared within. Then there was no sound, none at all, just a tense, dramatic waiting.

Ringmaster-Bofur strutted up to the cannon, setting his top hat at a jaunty angle. From the folds of his cloak, he produced a match, which he lit. The long cord of the cannon ignited with a hiss, and then the entire audience watched as the light slowly wound nearer and nearer to the base. Finally, with a climactic hiss, the spark disappeared. There was a half-beat of silence, a calm before the storm, and then the cannon went off with a huge, muffled explosion, and Bombur, twisted into the shape of a ball, came flying out! He sailed across the ring and struck a waiting net dead center. Bombur the human cannonball tumbled to the ground unharmed. The audience erupted.

Bilbo felt his hands grow numb from the force of his clapping. His face hurt from grinning, but he couldn't stop.

* * *

"Papa, weren't the clowns funny? Are they going to come back?" The child's words reached Bilbo as the stage was cleared of all its antic props, the cannon shuffled back into obscurity. Her face, pale in the darkness, was aglow with pleasure.

The father leaned forward until his facial hair tickled his daughter's ear and made her squirm, giggling. "We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Perhaps what comes next will be even better."

"It couldn't be better, Papa," she exclaimed and had to be shushed. Bilbo sympathized with her vehemence. His mind was filled to the brim already with Ori's smoke beasts, the wonderful clown parade, the music, the fire, the sound of hoof beats, and the roar of bears. What could possibly be grander than what they had already seen?

As though in answer, Thorin stepped into the center ring and spoke the words that Bilbo had been waiting all night to hear. "Lords and ladies, honored guests," he said. "Thus far we have shown you the charm and power of my people, yet greater reaches are still to come. I present to you now two brothers, princes of the House of Durin."

 _'Princes, eh?'_ Bilbo thought, unable to keep his lips from twitching upward as the spotlight widened. _'I wonder which of those rascals pushed for that. Probably Kili.'_

Thorin continued his introduction, lifting his hat from his head and placing it over his heart, where his blood beat. "My own nephews, descendants of warriors from ancient times, these two have so perfected their art they do not baulk _even from aiming at their brother's back_." A murmur of appreciation answered this audacious claim, but Bilbo felt himself break into a sweat. Surely Thorin was joking.

Thorin raised his hand. "Behold, Fíli and Kíli, weapons masters!"

The boys appeared upon command, hardly recognizable in their costumed finery. Kíli had added studded bracers and a fine bow, velvety black in the dramatic lighting. On his back, a quiver bristled with arrows. Beside him Fíli wore a jerkin of golden brown leather. He bore no weapons that Bilbo could see, but with his hair braided away from his temples and his expression of regal tranquility, he looked every inch the prince. On the seats in front of him, a pair of young women openly stared. Bilbo didn't wonder at it. Both boys were trimmed out to draw just that kind of attention. Handsome and bold, they truly looked like warriors of a bygone age.

Kíli, of course, soaked up the attention. Full of brash cockiness, he winked at any lady who caught his gaze. Fíli, on the other hand, rolled his eyes at his brother's antics and gave him a playful shove to call him back to his duty. A scripted shove, it seemed, because Kíli reached over his shoulder and smoothly drew forth an arrow, loosing it from his bow in a movement so fluid and natural that the audience did not have time to gasp. It thumped into the very center of a target anchored to a support beam used by the trapeze artists.

Kíli laughed, a sound that tickled every ear that heard it, and then he let fly three more arrows – this time dead into the midst of the stunned specters, or so it seemed. The lights flared, revealing the true object of Kíli's aim – more targets, set just above the heads of those on the highest risers. Breathless and relieved, Bilbo found himself shaking his head in admiration. With great effort, he unclenched his white hands from his knees. Talk about stirring up attention. Every eye in the place was riveted on that bow, waiting to see what the brazen archer would come up with next.

Clearly enjoying himself, Kíli drew another arrow and placed it, slowly and deliberately. His aim was once again on the breathless crowd, and Bilbo felt his heart palpitating to see the glinting tip, which by some trick of the light seemed beaded over his own heart. Then, in a sudden movement, Kíli pivoted, his aim turning so that it was directed at Fíli. He fired, and every member of the stands went to their feet.

But if they expected fratricide, instead they witnessed a calm Fíli lift his arm, and the deadly arrow whizzed past, fluttering his shirt but leaving no mark on his skin.

Kíli laughed again, delighting in the stir he'd caused. He raised his fist to the crowd, who applauded. They took their seats as Fíli began his bit. Seemingly annoyed, the older of the brothers looked at the sleeve which had been so narrowly missed by the arrow. It was torn, and Fíli put his hands on his hips and glared at Kíli, who was too busy splashing that handsome grin all over the appreciative young women on the front row to notice.

That was when Bilbo learned what Fíli could do, because from the interior of his jerkin he withdrew a throwing knife, one which gleamed like a whetted eye. An eye that was staring at Kíli. He threw! The crowd hissed. But Kíli stunned them all. His feet left the ground, and in the air he turned a perfect back flip, even as the knife which had been thrown passed harmlessly beneath him. It hit the other side of the ring, going home almost to the hilt, and everyone knew that the trick had been planned.

After that, the real show began. Fíli threw knives with a speed and precision that was hard to believe, sending them into man-shaped targets from vantages of increasingly difficulty. Right handed, left handed. Over his head, between his legs, backward, blindfolded. Nothing seemed too difficult for him. Kíli was just as skilled. They showed their mastery of those deadly weapons, and through it all their nerve shone like a star on a clear night. They never flinched, never lost eye contact when one or the other stepped into the spotlight. They were unbelievable, and if that had been all, it would have been enough to leave their viewers satisfied, but that was not what _The Company_ did.

They were there to dazzle.

Bilbo knew the finale had come when the music rose and Fíli and Kíli stood back to back. Bilbo saw the sweat shinning on their faces. He was sure both glanced his way and winked, and then they separated, Kíli to one side and Fíli to the other. Two new objects had been rolled into the ring. On one side, a huge ball. A clown had taken a knee, and Kíli used it to vault onto its apex. There, he took a moment to balance, the bow still in his hand. When he was steady, he smiled at the audience, holding his fingers in a cheeky salute.

Bilbo saw that the trampoline from this morning had also been brought in, and Fíli was climbing the ladder to the trapeze, which was beside it. When he reached the platform, he faced the crowd and placed something hanging from a length of rope over his head. A square plank settled against his chest. At the center of this plank, which rested just over his heart, was a target.

Bilbo slid to the edge of his seat before he realized what he was doing. His mouth moved in a voiceless cry. Probably Kíli could hit that, even though it was so small. Probably the plank was reinforced so that the arrow would not pierce through even if he did, but still Bilbo's blood ran cold. They couldn't. They mustn't.

"Daddy," the little girl fretted, her fist squeezing the fabric of his shirt.

The man braced an arm around her. "It's okay, poppet," he reassured her. However, to Bilbo, even his face looked grey.

Kíli drew forth his final arrow. He seemed so steady, his knees bent to make the small adjustments needed to keep his position atop his unstable perch. With aching slowness, he turned his weapon on the trampoline. It was hard to see Fíli's face from so far, but there was no measure of uncertainty in his body language. He stepped to the edge of the platform, his toes curling over the edge. And then he jumped.

Fili dropped, turning in the air toward the waiting trampoline. The fabric bent deeply as he made impact. Then Fíli was propelled back into the air, this feet over head, only coming out of his turn at the height of his jump. In that instant, he spread his arms, and it was then that Kíli shot his arrow.

The air buzzed, frozen, as that arrow flew. When it struck Fíli, everyone knew because his body jerked. He fell, no longer flying but falling, off the trampoline and into a pile of mats discarded behind it on the floor. There he lay unmoving, the feathered arrow sticking up from the place where his shirt opened.

There was a brutal moment of total silence, a heartbeat in which either triumph or tragedy could have reigned. Then Fíli sat up. He scratched his mussed hair as though annoyed it had gotten out of place, and then he raised the plank above his head. In its center was the arrow. It had hit the target dead in the center. Fíli himself appeared unharmed.

To say the crowd exploded was an understatement. Everyone swarmed to their feet, beating their hands together, stomping with their feet, roaring with their mouths. Bilbo remained seated. He was panting so hard he felt faint. When he pressed his hand against his shirt, he could feel his wildly palpitating heart. "I'm going to kill then," he murmured. But as he fought to regain composure, he couldn't stop the feeling of amazement that pooled inside him, winding around his pride.

* * *

The moment came for which each trembling heart under the big top had been longing, even if they had not realized. On either side of the ring, where the supporting spires of the trapeze stood, two bodies rose and began a long, slow climb. Soon they were suspended far above the heads of the spectators. Transfixed, all watched the trapeze artists – one large and one small – take their place, both wearing leotards streaked with veins of copper, which seemed to burn from their bodies as heat did from a fissure. The fly bar detatched, coming to Gimli's hand, and the audience murmured when they saw how young he was. His father loosed the catcher's bar on the other side. They saluted each other and then gripped the bars with both hands.

The atmosphere changed as the lights grew blue. Trapeze swings shivered like ravens, and Bilbo felt his mouth go dry, because instead of Gimli and Glóin up there, he saw his mother, her slender hands graceful as they curved around the bar. He saw her lovely shape, the glitter on her cheek and eyebrow catching the light.

Gimli and Glóin swung with hypnotic movements, but to Bilbo the scene had transformed. The trapeze had become the swing that hung from a tree in his childhood backyard. Small feet moved back and forth, while a very young Bilbo gazed at a woodlouse creeping through the earth and listened to his parents' voices. They were hushed but urgent, and it wasn't difficult to hear them through the kitchen window, with its latch that never properly closed.

Mother spoke first. Her throaty voice, which could sound velvety and mysterious when reading stories, was pinched with unhappiness. "I don't understand why you're so concerned. He's an imaginative child, that's all. A few visits to the circus hasn't done him any harm."

Bilbo could almost see the creases in his father's forehead, the kind he got when his son found dangerous situations, like climbing the gutters and balancing on the edge of the roof, or coming home with bloody knees from tree climbing. "He's getting more reckless by the day. To listen to him talk, you'd think he planned to become the 'man on the flying trapeze' or something equally as wild."

"Is it really so terrible that he dreams of what it might be like? As young as he is, I've rarely seen better. He really could –"

Father's voice raised an octave. "What kind of life would that be for him? Never a permanent place to put his feet. No friends his own age. No steady schooling. A Baggins doesn't go haring off into the blue!"

"He may be a Baggins," Mother said with pride flaring in her voice, "but he's also a Took, and that means performing is in his blood. Maybe that's what you object to – you wouldn't want him to end up carny trash."

It would've taken a fool not to hear the pain in her voice, and Father wasn't a fool. He softened immediately. "Belle, you know that's not how I feel. I met you on the wire, and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I just want Bilbo to love _this_ life, with our family, our little garden. Our home."

There was a period of in which Bilbo heard only the creak of the rope, the chirp of a cricket somewhere in the grass. Finally, though, his mother spoke. "Maybe you're right. It's not fair to confuse him by trying to divide time between two worlds. I think it's best I stop performing."

Father sounded surprised. "Darling, I don't think it needs to go that far."

"No, I can't accept half measures, always separating some part of myself from my husband and son. A clean break will be best for all of us."

"Are you sure?" Father did not sound as though _he_ was, even though it was he who had brought up these concerns, but mother must have been wearing her stubborn face, because in the end he only sighed. "You know you can change your mind at any time."

"I've made up my mind," said mother firmly. "There will be no more circuses."

Outside, little Bilbo dug his toes into the dirt until the swing came to a halt. There was a pricking sensation in his eyes, and when he rubbed them, his hand came away wet. He felt like he had lost something, even though he had no idea what it all meant.

Not long after, his mother got sick. No one explained to him what was wrong with her, but Bilbo had overhead his father in the hallway with the doctor. Mother stopped fighting. As much as they coaxed her to eat and exercise, she grew thin and unwell in the coming weeks. Bilbo sat for hours at her bedside, petting her hand. Many times, he wanted to ask if it was her decision not to perform that had made her sick, that had taken away her _joie de vivre_ , but in the end he couldn't bear knowing. He didn't want to think it could be his fault.

Belladona Baggins died a fortnight after Bilbo's seventh birthday; her husband followed not a year later.

For many, it might have ended any interest in the skills his mother taught him, but somehow it hadn't. Bilbo sometimes felt like his heart only truly beat when it was six meters above the ground. It had sustained him for the years he was shuffled between relatives, until finally the day came when he was old enough to take possession of his family property, kept for him in trust. He'd stepped back into the empty halls, touched the mantle cloaked with dust, and wondered why it didn't feel like coming home. _'What's a home without a family?'_ his mind supplied, and the hollow feeling in his belly had put down roots.

Bilbo came back to himself just as the graceful flight on the trapeze was reaching its final, dramatic heights. Bilbo watched with eyes moist with tears, his mind both in the past and the future. With this chance he'd been given as a link between them. _'Do you see me, Mum?'_ he directed his thoughts toward the woman who had helped him take his first wobbling steps on the wire. _'All these years later, and I've run off to the circus after all.'_

"Time to climb high, Bilbo," he whispered aloud, full of conviction. Maybe, if he was very lucky, he could finally find his way back home.

* * *

 **Next Chapter Summary:** Bilbo prepares for his first performance with some trepidation. Thorin is unhelpful.

 **Footnote(s):**  
[1] The chapter title is the famous Dwarvish battle cry, which translates to "Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!"

 **Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed the performance and that it awakened a little of the awe that such a marvelous dwarrow circus should inspire. It was certainly fun to write! Just a head's up; the next chapter is going to come a little later next week; probably on Saturday. I'll be travelling with students and won't have access to a computer for several days. Sorry for the delay!


	5. Cold Be Hand and Heart and Bone

**CHAPTER FIVE:  
** Cold Be Hand and Heart and Bone

* * *

After the performance ended, the crowd was released into the midway where vendors would entice the blow off into purchasing a final souvenir. Bilbo remained behind until the tent was empty, then slipped through the barrier so he could reach the area behind the big top. It was full of bustle when he arrived: people half-in and half-out of their costumes, and already a great deal of moving, stitching, and hauling. The circus would be in town for three more days, and preparations for the following night were already underway.

Bilbo searched for two faces in particular. They caught sight of him first, and Kíli waved. "Bilbo!"

The two brothers were with Balin and Ori. Bilbo edged through the press until he was alongside them. "You were amazing," he congratulated. "Ori, how on earth did you make those shadow creatures?"

Twisting the sleeves of his robe, Ori said, "It's all smoke and mirrors, really. Projectors, clever lighting." He offered Bilbo a tiny smile. "– a little magic."

Bilbo shook his head, more than willing to believe it. He turned to the others. "And you two! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a feat, although you nearly gave me a stroke, make no mistake about that. Shame on you, you scoundrels! Next time I'd like a warning."

He could tell the praise pleased them because Kíli actually looked bashful, while stoic Fíli wore a smile like mellow gold: warm. "If we'd told you what to expect it would have spoiled everything," Kíli protested. "Besides, it's not really as dangerous as it looks."

"He says that now," Balin chuckled. "But let me tell you, when the lads first started practicing, they stressed my poor nerves terribly. I think all of us had our moments of doubt, even with the precautions they took."

Fíli raised his arms as though his shirt were inflated. "I used to wear a padded vest, for all the good it did. I still ended up black and blue."

"Whiner," Kíli scoffed. "It wasn't that bad. Besides, if you hadn't flapped around so much, it wouldn't have been so hard to hit you." He offered Bilbo the wooden target from their act, his final arrow still lodged in its center. "Of course, we're way beyond that now. See? Perfect shot."

Bilbo took the proffered plank, which seemed even thinner and smaller up close. When he turned it over, he found that the tip of the arrow had actually pierced the wood. He touched it with his finger. "Doesn't this hurt?"

Fíli pulled back his shirt, revealing a thin scratch. "Barely even bled," he assured, seeing Bilbo's face pale. "But the arrow has to be sharp, or we run the risk that it might shatter the wood. All those little bits of debris flying toward your face and eyes?" He made a hissing sound in his throat. "Better this way."

Maybe so, but as he let his tunic fall back into place, Bilbo couldn't help but think of all those tiny scars etched into the space over Fíli's heart. Not wanting to put a damper on the evening, he forced himself to change the subject. "What happens now?"

"First we get everything safely stowed away," Balin answered. "Then the animals will be cared for. After that, we'll sweep the property to make sure we don't have any guests lingering where they shouldn't be."

"Does that happen?"

"Oh, certainly. People love to sneak into the back lot, especially around the animal enclosures. Mostly teenagers. Once we take care of that, it'll be supper and bed. Early day tomorrow."

Kíli leaned close, imparting in a stage whisper, "They're all early days."

Bilbo was surprised to hear talk of eating. At lunchtime, everyone had helped themselves to a large meal, and closer to the performance, there had been a buffet with mostly fruit, cheese, and cold meat. But after so much exertion, everyone was surely hungry again. He felt a pang of guilt. So much to do, and all he'd managed was to rest on the bleachers and munch popcorn.

Fíli must have sensed the direction of his thoughts, because he said, "Don't worry, Bilbo. You'll have plenty to do soon enough. I walked in on Uncle just this afternoon while he was writing out your work assignment. Plus there'll be fittings for your wardrobe and hours of practice on the wire."

Patting his shoulder, Balin added, "He's right, laddie. Tonight you were our guest. We wanted you to see _The Company_ at its best. Now that you have, you'll be ready to take part. You did enjoy it, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes," Bilbo answered. The power of the performance was still heavy on his heart, which he touched absently. "It was wonderful."

Approving smiles all around. "Well, that's it then. Starting tomorrow, you'll begin staging, and then, before you know it, you'll be starring in your own bit," said Balin. "Of course, you'll need some time to work out just what you want to do –"

Bofur chose that moment to break into their group. "That's right! And guess what? You get to start out with me! How do you feel about jumping rope?"

Bilbo was alarmed. "On – on the wire, or in general?"

Kíli started laughing. "Thorin wants to work him in with the clowns?"

The others smiled, even Ori, as though sharing a secret joke. Bofur, meanwhile, performed a kind of exaggerated cha-cha. He thrust his hips back and forth, his boots flashing. "We'll start with a little comedy, a bit of pizazz, and then you'll be on your own to woo the crowd. You're up for it, aren't you, Bilbo?"

Fine tremors coursed through Bilbo's hands, which he clutched together behind his back. The enchantment of the performance was beginning to wear off. In its place, reality pressed down. He forced his throat to contract. "Of-of course."

The others looked at him with compassion. Balin gave his shoulder a squeeze. "We have faith in you, Bilbo."

It was meant to be comforting, but somehow it only made the jittery feelings grow worse.

* * *

That night, Bilbo had a horrible time falling asleep. The skylight was propped open, and the shadows crept inside. Bilbo laid on his back with his blankets up to his chin. He was torn. On the one hand, there was a tingling anticipation that had started in his toes and worked into his stomach and fingers until it was all he could do not to throw on his clothes and climb onto the wire this very instant. Yet when he thought of standing before an audience, a real and true audience, his stomach roiled.

Beneath the blanket, his legs made restlessly motions. The urge to get up, to move, grew unbearable. Finally, he gave in. Casting a wary glance in the direction of his bunkmates, Bilbo pulled a jumper over his head and – with special care not to let the door squeak – slipped out into the courtyard. He picked his way through the picnic tables until he reached the gravel path which ran between the other trailers. Everything was still. Even the crickets seemed asleep.

 _'Everyone but me,'_ Bilbo thought. _'The tightwire artist who is only now realizing he might have a serious case of stage fright. Couldn't have figured that out before signing on with a traveling circus, eh, Bilbo?'_

Speaking aloud, he murmured, "Well, it's a little late now."

The words of self-recrimination were meant for his own ears. However, he wasn't as alone as he'd imagined. Out of the space between two trailers, a rumbling voice asked, "Do you usually wander about in the middle of the night?"

Bilbo practically jumped out of his skin as he was joined by a hulking great shadow with brushy black mustaches and strange tattoos. "Dwalin," he blurted. Then, because that seemed rude, he stammered out an answer to the man's question. "Ah, no. Not really. I was just –"

The man made a low noise. "And this is to be to our great new act. A squeaking mouse? Ori has more nerve."

The insult had a galvanizing effect. Bilbo felt his chest expand, his hands tighten. "Just because I don't have a bunch of bulging muscles doesn't mean I don't have any nerve." He narrowed his eyes. "You don't even know me."

"Hm," said Dwalin. "I don't need to, do I? You won't last a week. Life on the road is no place for gentle folk who cannot fend for themselves. You need discipline, resilience, grit." He leaned forward. "Have you got any of those tucked into that soft belly of yours?"

Soft belly! Far past annoyance, Bilbo went so far as to lean forward into Dwalin's face – or as close as he could come, which was nearer his pectorals. "Does the circus have a monopoly on grit? I'll have you know that just keeping a roof over your head is no easy task. You may think I don't have what it takes. Well, just wait. I'll show you. You and Thorin both."

It was a great deal more brash than Bilbo's usual way of speaking, but he didn't like a bully, and he certainly wasn't going to be told that he couldn't take care of himself. He'd been alone all of his adult life, and most of his adolescence, and though he'd embraced the quiet predictability of his little apartment and everyday life, he was nothing if not self-reliant. He could feel the heat of anger in his face, strident contrast to the cool night breeze. However, perhaps his outburst was the right course of action, because Dwalin's demeanor changed.

He stepped more fully onto the path and gestured. "Walk with me."

Though reluctant, Bilbo fell into step beside the man as they crunched down the gravel road. For a while they walked in silence, passing by dozens of silent trailers. Bilbo couldn't help but follow them with his eyes, wondering about those who lived within. Eventually, he spoke. "I told you why I was out here, but what are you doing awake at this time of night, Mister Dwalin?"

"You saw that I perform in the midway and have a bit in the show," Dwalin answered, "but I'm also the head of security. This is my route."

That was a bit surprising, though Bilbo supposed it shouldn't be. After all, hadn't he been told several times that _The Company_ was short on funds? Surely many took on multiple roles, and Dwalin certainly looked the part of security. "Balin mentioned that sometimes people creep around where they don't belong, but I didn't realize you had someone patrolling at night."

"We learned through hard experience that not everyone can be trusted, and I don't like outsiders any more than Thorin," said Dwalin rather pointedly. He extended his arm toward the trailers. "These are my people. My job is to protect them. I vetted every single person who works on this premises. Until now."

Ah. So that was the reason Bilbo had been given such a cold shoulder by this man. Bilbo nudged a stone with his toe. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't know quite what happened myself. Up until the minute I was standing in front of the gate with a bag in my hand, I thought it must be a kind of dream."

"Gandalf has that effect on people, and he isn't easy to dissuade," Dwalin agreed, sounding less irritated and more speculative. Deep down, there might even have been a thread of sympathy. He glanced at Bilbo. "I didn't know why he picked you. I'm still not sure, but perhaps –"

He did not finish. Their walk carried on without words. Yet Bilbo carried that "perhaps" with him, and when he finally slipped back into his bed, he tucked it into the corners of his mind and dwelt on it. He dreamed.

* * *

The following morning, as he untangled himself from the net for the twentieth time, Bilbo felt as though he were bruised from the top of his head to the bottom of his aching feet. He didn't even have the will to stand, but before he could muster it, Bofur was there, wringing him out like a shirt straight from the wash. "Alright there, Bilbo? That was quite a tumble; heels right over your head! Maybe you have a concussion?"

The way his voice drew out the question, he almost sounded hopeful. Bilbo freed himself before he had to endure any more probing fingers, for Bofur, he had discovered, had no proper sense of personal space. "I'll be fine. I just need a breather."

Bofur gave him a shove. "Sure, sure. Just let me know when you're ready to go again. I've got to reset the tape deck. Back in a moment!"

Bilbo made his way, stiff-legged and weary, toward his water bottle. As he sat down, every joint in his body felt swollen, and the towel he rubbed over his neck was instantly sodden. "Bilbo, old boy," he told himself. "I can't believe how out of shape you've gotten."

He'd known life in the circus would be difficult, yet a mere three days with _The Company_ had taught him an entirely new meaning of the word. Mornings started bright and early with Kíli, who pounded him on the shoulder at five-thirty so that chores could be done. This amounted to a rotating schedule of equipment, costume, and trailer maintenance, scullery duty, and dozens of other tasks. By six-thirty they were at practice – five _hours_ of it – then lunch and rehearsal all afternoon, followed by dinner, staging, and supper, and finally a brief period before bed during which all personal care such as laundry and showering had to be completed. And that was a non-performance day.

Bilbo couldn't remember ever spending so much time on the wire. His feet were alternately agonized or numb and – for the first time in years – blistered. He'd even started taping his hands. Ruefully, he looked at them. There were new friction blisters popping up already, and it was only nine o'clock in the morning. To top it all off, the dreadful slippers still didn't feel right.

"You'll get it, Bilbo," Bofur encouraged, rejoining him. "No need to worry about a few little tumbles."

Bilbo groaned, letting his head fall back against the ladder. "So you say." To be honest, a concussion almost sounded preferable to another round of that routine. That way, at least, he would be allowed to rest.

Bofur tsked, but there was sympathy on his face. He really was the most patient of men, even if his sense of humor bordered on the macabre. If anything, he seemed to have more faith in Bilbo's abilities than Bilbo did himself. "Let's talk through it again. First, you walk out onto the line, lovely as you please –"

Bilbo took up the recitation. "Then you'll enter the ring and challenge me to a tightrope duel."

"That's right. I'll start out with a cartwheel."

"And I'll mimic you," Bilbo said with a smile. "Only better."

Bofur responded to Bilbo's choice of words by puffing out his cheeks, but still his lively eyes were dancing. "More _gracefully_ ," he suggested. "A few more tricks, and then out comes the umbrella."

Up until this point in the script, the movements were clear in Bilbo's mind. It was slightly more challenging when he had to mind the band's accompaniment, but Bilbo had been working with music all his life, and that wasn't the hard part. Even the back flip – the most difficult trick of the performance, which he was still only landing half the time – wasn't the real problem. No, the real problem was the damned umbrella. "Bofur," he said. "I haven't caught it even once, and I'm not sure I can."

"You were just fine on the low wire," Bofur reminded him.

It was true. When he practiced near the ground, Bilbo had no problem with the trick. Yet at height it still defied him.

Bofur caught his look. "You could still change the wire," he suggested.

He meant the slack wire Bilbo had rigged. It's give and elasticity allowed for all kinds of acrobatic stunts, and for Bilbo it was his most natural setting. However, the slack wire was almost never rigged higher than ten feet. Bilbo had his at thirty, and it had taken an entire day to persuade Thorin to allow this exception. Only after hours of steady arguing had the circus ringleader's stone-cold resistance broken down. At that point, Thorin had lost his temper: "If you want to be a fool, then fine, but I'll be damned if I let you break your neck in front of an audience. You have three days to prove to me that you're capable, and if the routine isn't perfect, you'll be fulfilling the rest of your contract jogging behind a horse with a shovel."

That conversation had been two days ago, and the memory still put Bilbo in a cross mood. It gave him fresh resolve. "Let's try again."

Up the ladder he went, trying to ignore the prickle of anxiety that built as he climbed. When he reached the top, he dusted his hands and gave the ready signal. The music began, and Bilbo took the first of several steps onto the wire. This first part of the performance was purely a showcase of his talents, and so he made his movements deliberate and supple. A simple pivot or two, kneeling and stretching. A back-bend, a turnover. All of them even and controlled to the sound of a slow, resonate violin.

Then the music changed. In bounced Bofur, who flounced into center stage wearing the same faux-ringmaster garb he usually donned during the show. When he spotted Bilbo, however, the sight seemed to excite him. He took off the top hat and threw it away with contempt. Then, with a flourish and the sound of Velcro, Bofur tore away his coat to reveal the gaudiest sequined leotard Bilbo had ever seen. He wore it over a pair of long underwear, so that it bulged around his joints and especially at his waist. Bofur then brought his feet together like a ballet dancer and pirouetted in obvious imitation of Bilbo.

Bilbo watched the clown approach a fat rope stretched out against the ground, which would serve as Bofur's make-believe tight rope. Bofur strutted upon it, arms flung wide as though he were balancing. When he reached the end, he turned toward Bilbo and waggled his bottom in mockery. Bilbo rolled his eyes and stepped forward to answer the challenge. This part was simplicity itself. When he finished his casual walk across the line, he brushed his hands and smirked, as though to say, "Well?"

It was the beginning of a back and forth, a testing of skill. Bofur hopped, flapping his arms. Bilbo jumped, light as air. Bofur attempted a split, though it ended in high-pitched wheezing. Bilbo slipped into the position easily, his back and neck an elegant arch. Bilbo could almost imagine the way the crowd would laugh.

They reached the back flip. On his tiptoes, Bofur made his way to the center of his "tight rope" and balanced precariously. His face squeezed with concentration, he wheeled, wobbled – and then did a perfect flip, landing with the sound of horns. Ta-da!

Bilbo felt a trickle of sweat roll down his face as he raised his own arms. Timpani drums rolled as he bent his knees, and then gravity turned over as Bilbo gave up his connection with the line, turning in a lightning fast movement that gave him only a fraction of a second to sight – no, to feel – where his feet should go. By some miracle, he made solid contact and, for once, the unhappy shoes did not betray him. With only a slight sway, he righted himself and drew a breath of triumph.

Now for the hard part. Feigning outrage at Bilbo's performance, Bofur jumped off his line and paced back and forth, kicking invisible objects and huffing. However, mid-stomp he stopped and scrubbed his chin in thought. Out of his sleeve he produced a light bulb, which sprang to life. He tossed it over his shoulder, then, pulling up his ludicrous leotard, he turned to Bilbo.

It was time for the dreaded umbrella. It was this part which had repeatedly defeated Bilbo. Bofur marched purposefully toward the net, umbrella in hand. He wound up to toss it directly into the air where Bilbo was waiting to catch it. _'But I haven't caught it,_ ' he thought. _'Not one time without falling.'_ Yet Thorin's three days were quickly drawing to a close. Bilbo had to master this trick. If he couldn't, he doubted Thorin would really take him off the wire, but it would mean having to change his bit to something less challenging, and the very thought of that made Bilbo so upset that he stuck out his chin and steeled himself. He would rather scrap manure than admit to Thorin that he was an amateur.

He held out his hand, and Bofur tossed the closed umbrella.

It sailed with perfect aim, hanging in the air. Bilbo reached to grasp it, body bending to provide balance as he took its weight. Almost by a miracle, his fingers closed around the handle, and with a movement that brought his entire body around, he pushed it open to its widest breadth. It spread like a pinwheel, filling his vision. Bilbo froze as realization poured in. He was still on the line.

Bofur broke character and gave a whoop. "You've got it, Bilbo! You got it!"

Bilbo's heart was racing with shock and happiness. He looked at the umbrella with its vibrant stripes and wanted to join Bofur's celebration. _'It's possible,'_ he thought with slowly dawning confidence. A smile broke out as the haft of the umbrella rotated in his hand.

* * *

Later, Thorin stood with his arms crossed over his chest and watched the entire routine twice through. When it was over, he nodded at Bofur. "Fine. We'll put it in the next show. But I want to know, do you honestly think he's ready? Really ready?"

Bofur looked at Bilbo. Bilbo rocked from his heels to his toes and back again. He was still feeling high with the day's success, and adrenaline took hold of his tongue. "I'm ready."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, his smoldering gaze baring into Bilbo's. "I certainly hope so, Mister Baggins," he said, "because the next time you do that bit, it's going to be in front of an audience."

It was only after he left that Bilbo calmed down enough to think about what that actually meant; that in only a day's time, he would not be standing backstage listening to the sounds of the circus or watching from the audience. Instead, he would be in the show, with all that that entailed. The thought brought goose bumps out onto his arms, and it must have shown, because Bofur laid a hand on his shoulder. "You alright there, Bilbo?"

Bilbo nodded numbly. He would have to be, wouldn't he?

* * *

Bilbo's new costume, a midnight-colored leotard affixed with a thousand silver beads, hung in the trailer, newly stitched and ready to be worn. After placing it on its hanger, Bilbo had once again laid awake, his toes twitching beneath the blankets. Finally, restlessness once again drove him out of bed. He made his way to the big top. It wasn't strictly allowed. He was supposed to have a spotter when he went aloft; someone who could assist if he were injured. Tonight, though, he wanted no audience. He wanted to climb, to run, to leap. He wanted to walk the high wire.

However, when he slipped into the huge interior, he found he wasn't alone. Someone was already occupying the center ring, and as Bilbo crept closer, he recognized the performer. It was Thorin.

He was clasping something. Light reflected off steel, and Bilbo recognized a sword, long and wickedly sharp. Thorin held the hilt with steady purpose, as one who knew it like an extension of his own arm. Bilbo followed the footwork, the thrust and parry. It had all the markers of true and deadly intent, yet there was also showmanship, a grace that Bilbo recognized as a fellow practitioner of the arts.

Thorin gave no sign he was aware of begin watched. Yet when the performance ended, he set the sword aside and picked up a towel to wipe his face. "Mister Baggins. What are you're doing here?"

Bilbo practically jumped out of his skin. An honest answer didn't seem particularly wise, but he had the feeling subterfuge would do him no good. _'After all, the man did presumably have something to do with raising Kíli,'_ he reasoned. ' _That's bound to have sharpened his instinct for mischief.'_

"Antsy feet," he admitted, looking down at his criminally bare toes. "The performance tomorrow, you know."

He didn't know what to expect from Thorin. The man had been resolutely distant but also volatile. Thus it was something of a surprise when he simply sat at the edge of the ring and answered, "I've been in thousands of shows. More than I can remember, from the time I was a boy."

Bilbo stepped closer, his interest peeked. "Do you remember the first?"

"I wasn't more than four or five. Tumbler. That's how we start most of the little ones."

Bilbo's mind went back to his own introduction to his craft. They were soft and hazy with age, yet there were a few distinct impressions. He could see his chubby legs under him, toes braided around a cord set only a few inches above the ground. His mother had her hands on his waist, her chin snuggled into the space between his neck and his shoulder. _"Take a step, baby boy,"_ her melodious voice encouraged him. He came back to the present. "Me, too. I was always playing on a slack line or hanging upside down from the cloud swing in our back yard."

Thorin nodded. "Fíli and Kíli's father was one of our best acrobats. He had the boys bouncing before they could walk. They would scoot around on their backsides, somersault head over heels. Kíli cracked his head open at least a dozen times before he was two."

Bilbo couldn't help but smile. "That might explain a few things." Now that the subject had been breached, he couldn't help but venture. "What happened to them, Fíli and Kíli's parents?"

It was like clouds drawing together, dark at the seams. Thorin said shortly, "That's no business of yours."

The turn in mood was enough to give him whiplash, and it sharpened Bilbo's own temper. He hardly understood why. When asked to describe him, most would have called Bilbo easy-going to the point of passivity. Yet something about Thorin brought out another side of him. He felt his eyebrows knitting together, and before he could censor himself, he said, "I didn't bring up the subject, in case you've forgotten."

It was like striking flint. The few neutral moments they'd shared went up in smoke, and a much tenser atmosphere settled over them both. Thorin tossed down the towel. "You always have to say something, don't you?"

The rancor in his voice surprised Bilbo. He'd already known that a professional relationship was probably the best he could hope for with Thorin. Contempt, though – that he had had not bargained for. Had they been friends, the moment might have been salvaged. The root of contention might have been located, dug out, removed. But Bilbo and Thorin were not friends, and instead a tight, angry knot formed in Bilbo's stomach. "Listen, Thorin. I'll obey any regulation you lay down, from wearing shoes to setting anchor points. You can even sack me if you'd like, but I'm not going to apologize for speaking my own mind."

The muscles in Thorin's jaw tightened so much they jumped. "Speaking your mind?"

"That's right. I'm not one of your relatives or dependents. I'm an outside contractor – an employee, and not your servant. Either you respect that, or better we part ways now."

This apparently struck a chord, for Thorin's answer came from deep in his chest. "So that's what this is. You've found your opportunity to turn tail and run."

What in the Vales of Anduin? Bilbo shook his head without comprehension. "You're not making any sense, Thorin. I'm not running."

An eyebrow raised. "Are you not?"

"Of course not! Only hours ago, you yourself cleared me to perform. I'm ready."

Thorin stood, barking out a laugh. "A few days practice, and you think you're ready? Oh, I'm sure you've done your fair share of performing for elementary schools and nursing homes. Maybe you've even slacklined in some rattrap sideshow beside a freeway. But you've seen what we do here at _The Company_ , Mister Baggins. We dazzle. _You_ – you managed to twirl an umbrella."

Bilbo swallowed. _The Company_ did dazzle. Every act was a work of art, every performance pushed the bounds of possibility. True, he had skills of his own. But were they enough? From nowhere, an image of the little girl in the bleachers came to his mind. She gazed at the tight rope, her face creased with disappointment. _"Daddy, won't the horses come back? Or the rabbits?"_

He asked, "If you didn't think I could do it, then why did you agree to let me try?"

Thorin said, "Better you find out for yourself than go off with your tail between your legs, whining that you never got a chance."

That was enough. Bilbo swiveled on his heel. A puff of sawdust kicked up as he went, leaving behind an impression of his foot. He didn't speak until the canvas flapped shut behind him, and then he was alone in the backlot. The night air cooled Bilbo's burning checks. His skin felt tight, and for a time he couldn't sort out the emotions that roiled beneath the surface. Finally, he settled on one. It wasn't the determination inspired by Dwalin's "perhaps" or the certainty of grasping Bofur's umbrella. It wasn't even the fear of the unknown that stirred the moment Bilbo looked through his peephole and Gandalf's blue eye was peering back.

 _Doubt_ had come, and it seeped into his spirit like a drop of blood threading through water.

* * *

 **Next Chapter Summary:** The spotlights burn down, and Bilbo stands trembling at the edge of the curtain.

 **Author's Note(s):** That last scene came at an awkward time for me. Fresh from an similarly unpleasant confrontation, I found Bilbo and Thorin's conversation really hard to approach with objectivity. Hopefully, though, the right atmosphere was captured. Are you getting a sense of where Thorin and Bilbo's relationship is going? I'm looking forward to hearing what you think of it and the rest of this chapter.


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